


Bad Daddy

by SomeoneIMayOrMayNotBe



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Angst and Humor, Anxiety, BDSM, Bad Dad Route, Bottom Dadsona (Dream Daddy), Cult Ending (Dream Daddy), Daddy Kink, Dadsona (Dream Daddy) POV, Dom/sub, Empty Nest Syndrome, Hand Fetish, Happy Ending, Jealousy, Kink Negotiation, Knifeplay, LGBTQ Themes, Leather Fetish, M/M, Mindfuck, Occult, Porn With Plot, Power Dynamics, Psychological Horror, Relationship Negotiation, Romance, Sexual Content, Shameless Smut, Slow Burn, Social Anxiety, Spoilers, Supernatural Elements, Unhealthy Relationships, Unnamed Dadsona (Dream Daddy), dad puns, fear kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-01-06 11:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18387509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeoneIMayOrMayNotBe/pseuds/SomeoneIMayOrMayNotBe
Summary: I'm basically rewriting the Bad Dad route, because a slut-shaming Robert makes no sense, and I want a true happy ending for these dorks! Cult Ending compliant, because I'm also a sick freak, and I want to dig my fingers into those dark and filthy Robert/Dadsona/Evil!Joseph dynamics.You do not need to have seen either ending or to have played the game at all in order to enjoy this fic. That being said, fans of the game will recognize a lot of the scenes and bits of dialogue. Enjoy!





	1. The Move

Your daughter is fiddling with the car radio as you throw one last wistful look at the house. You'd thought Amanda would have been more emotional about leaving the home she grew up in. Then again, she's always been the adventurous sort. You used to send her to bed and find her perched up on the roof 20 minutes later, using a flashlight to try and lure in alien spaceships. It's a miracle you've made it to your 40s without a heart attack.

Of course, you have it on good authority that moving from one side of town to the other doesn't count as a "real" adventure. _It's not like we'll be off exploring the Amazon! You gotta chill, Pops!_ Her words.

When she starts bouncing her leg and staring at you expectantly, you finally convince yourself to put the car in drive. "So long, old house!," you call out as you pull out of the driveway for the last time. "You have served us well. May your new owners keep your lawn freshly mowed and your roof free of leaks."

Amanda chuckles. "Remember when I shattered the front window playing catch, and then just after you were done fixing it, I broke the other one?"

Ah, kids. Such a wonderful part of the human experience.

You indulge her for a few minutes as she reminisces about all damage she has inflicted upon your poor house (and poorer wallet) over the years. She even found a way to break her own fibula at some point. "We get it, Amanda, you break stuff," you eventually interrupt. "Can I count on you to wait a little while before you set the new place on fire or punch it full of holes? You'll have graduated college and be married with three kids before I finish paying the mortgage as it is."

"I'll think about it," she says in a tone that clearly signifies you shouldn't hold your breath, before not-so-subtly changing the subject. "So, have you met any of the neighbors yet?"

"Not yet," you answer, keeping the _and I hope I won't have to_ part quiet. Getting to know the neighbors isn't a necessity in this day and age, is it? You're terrible at small talk. You're also the gay single father of a mixed race child who shares no biological relationship with you, so you're understandably wary of the nosy, gossipy types. Who really gets to know their neighbors nowadays, anyway? The only reason you knew the names of your previous neighbors was that they happened to have kids around Amanda's age.

She’s still watching you expectantly, so you add: "I hear it's a pretty quiet neighborhood."

"So we won't have to chase any rowdy teens off the lawn?" Amanda pulls your CD wallet case out from under her seat, having apparently given up on the radio. She shuffles through the pages, presumably in search of something not produced in the early 90s. Anything she picks will surely be preferable to the chipper voice of radio announcers. It's early, you're running on three hours of sleep at most, and the coffee machine is off on the moving truck along with the rest of your belongings. You're not sure you can handle _chipper._

You mockingly chastize Amanda for stereotyping her peers as troublemakers, even though you're privately guilty the same. Rambuctious kids make you anxious. _People in general_ make you anxious. This may be why it's been so hard for you to leave this old house behind -- not just because of all the memories, but because its walls form the outer limits of your comfort zone. You only ever seem to venture out for groceries, these days.

Your daughter makes some comment about how terribly _ancient_ she feels now that she's finally graduating high school, then proceeds to roll her eyes in true teenager fashion as you launch into some of your patented Dad Puns. (You pointedly avoid thinking about the fact that your little girl will be heading off to college in just over two months. How will you ever adjust to this, when you can barely handle changing houses?)

Thankfully, whether she senses your anxiety or is genuinely buzzing with excitement, Amanda continues to chatter through the entire drive. It turns out you can handle chipper after all, so long as it comes from your own progeny. You're grateful for the momentary distraction from this feeling of dread that’s been festering in your chest all week.

_You gotta chill, Pops!_

\--------------------

The movers have already dropped everything off and left by the time you arrive. You fish the spare key out of the mailbox, and hand it to your daughter. She drop kicks the For Sale sign before following you indoors. You're off to a fantastic start.

Minutes later, you find yourself standing dejectedly in the middle of the living room, unable to get your ass into gear despite all the work that awaits you. Objectively, you knew that this house was smaller than your previous one, but it didn't _feel_ that way when it was just sitting empty. Now that boxes are piled in every corner, the feeling is almost claustrophobic. Was this move truly the right decision? And since when do you even own so much crap?

It doesn't help that you were up all night packing last minute items and fretting over the inevitable. Obstacles always feel unsurmountable when you're tired. The caffeine withdrawal headache really isn't helping, but the prospective of opening every box marked "kitchen" in search of the coffee maker just seems so _daunting._

Amanda does a quick tour of the house and seems to come to the same conclusion. "Man, all that karate chopping tuckered me out. I could go for a sandwich." She slumps over a large box. "An _ice cream_ sandwich," she rectifies when she sees she has your attention.

"Sweetie... It's 10 a.m."

She raises an eyebrow in challenge. "So?"

"...Nothing. I keep forgetting I raised you to be an independent thinker."

She smiles proudly. "I'm a rebel!"

"Okay, let's find you something to eat."

" _You_ need to eat too."

"What I _need_ is a steaming hot cup of toasted bean juice. Otherwise I'll just be useless all day."

Amanda nods sagely. She knows you're not exaggerating. "I think I saw a coffee shop just down the street. Maybe we could check that out?"

"Sure, why not... Maybe they'll even have some of those fancy iced coffees that have ice cream in them, so we can combine our cravings."

Your daughter cheers excitedly. You don't usually do cafés.

\--------------------

As you come into view of The Coffee Spoon, you're reminded of _why_ you don't do cafés. They're pretentious, loud and overpriced. Oh, and _filled with strangers._

"Man, this is in such convenient walking distance from our place!"

"...I guess."

Amanda spins around to look at you. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing!," you answer a little too fast. "I just don't think I'll be in here all that much. I mean, why would I go and drink coffee on a questionably clean public couch when I could just drink better and cheaper coffee on my _own_ couch, and not have to make awkward eye contact with strangers at the same time?" You shudder. "At least when I'm home I know that some random guy isn't about to come up and sit on the recliner next to me and try to chat me up or just, like, sit _just_ close enough that he's not really at my table but it's super awkward because he's still very much intruding on my personal space."

"Dad --"

"And what's the etiquette when you're done with your mug? Is there a bin? Do you go set it up on the counter because you don't know where else to put it?" 

Amanda gives you an amused look. You're partly joking, but the anxiety is real.

"...Or do you leave it there, and feel like a jackass because there probably _is_ a place for it and everyone else somehow knows where it is but it happens to be just out of your line of sight and you feel self-conscious just kind of standing around looking for it, so you just leave and now everyone thinks you're rude instead of just a blind idiot?"

"Dad... Are you just afraid to meet new people?"

" _Yes,_ Amanda!"

She scoffs at you and drags you inside by the hand.

\--------------------

Ordering drinks and food at the coffee shop turns out to be just as stressful, confusing and expensive as you expected it. The menu is ridiculously complicated, with every item being named after some music band you've never heard of. Amanda attempts to get you chatting with the owner, which is a cringe-worthy experience, especially since all his music-based puns fly way over your head. How do you hold a conversation with an obvious contemporary music enthusiast, when all you ever listen to are the same few punk bands who were popular back when you were in college? Not to mention, the guy seems just as socially inept as you are, so there are all these awkward silences which neither of you know how to fill. You almost wish you were home opening boxes, caffeine withdrawals and all.

As soon as your drinks are ready, you retreat to a safe-looking spot in the corner, far enough from other patrons that you won't have to feel as though everyone is eavesdropping on your conversation. It's got a small L-shaped couch, so you get to sit close to Amanda while surveying the rest of the shop. It's not like you're _that_ paranoid -- you're not expecting anyone to pull a knife on you or anything -- but you'd rather keep strangers out where you can see them. It's just a really uncomfortable feeling when people you don't know keep walking behind your chair.

Amanda, of course, seems perfectly at ease as she sinks into her branch of the couch, holding her Machiatto Di Marco with both hands. Forget the musical reference, you're not even sure what a machiatto is. You're so out of your element it's not even funny.

"Isn't it lucky that this place is right next to our house?" Amanda grins, a suspicious glint in her eye. "That guy seems not only cool but also just as uncomfortable with talking to other people as you are. You should totally become friends with him!"

"Uhh... I don't know..." You throw a quick glance back in the owner's direction. He's a conventionally attractive black man, probably in his early 30s, with nerdy clothes and a sleeve tattoo. Odd combination, but you're in no place to judge, considering that you let your teenage kid style your hair and wardrobe. You look back to Amanda, and sure enough, she's making her fake innocent face. Is your kid trying to set you up with strangers now? Is that what she's hinting at when she keeps insisting that you need to 'get out' more? Should you tell her you prefer older dudes, or is that too much information?

"Come on," she teases, nudging you with her foot. "What did we say about meeting new people?"

"I can't meet new people if I always stay inside and also don't go outside and also don't talk to people," you parrot.

"See?" She gives you a bright smile. "We're making progress!"

The café owner in question brings your sandwiches over and uses the opportunity to formally introduce himself as Mat with one _t._ You offer him your name in return when Amanda kicks you under the table. Then you burn the roof of your mouth on your Godspeed You! Black Coffee. It's just this kind of day.

Mat lingers around your table a bit, retreating back to his counter when it becomes apparent that you can't think of anything more to say. Amanda rolls her eyes at you but refrains from commenting.

Honestly, you didn't use to be this uncomfortable around strangers. The problem with working from home is that you forget how to interact with other human beings as the years go by. Back when Alex was alive, things were different -- you both had outside jobs, and he was a regular social butterfly, so you frequently met up with friends on the weekend. Then Amanda came into your lives, and you began to do most of your work remotely so you could be around for her. Even so, it didn't feel so isolating when you still had your partner connecting you to the outside world.

Then Alex passed away, and Amanda became your entire world. She kept you grounded in reality, and as cliché as it sounds, gave you a reason to go on when you felt like giving up. With a mountain of bills to pay off on your own and an extremely active child to look after, you didn't have the time or the energy to focus on much else. Before you knew it, ten years had passed. It's not like you're _opposed_ to the idea of dating again, but the longer you go without that sort of connection, the harder it is to put yourself out there.

Amanda doesn't understand that. Case in point, she tries to prompt you through eyebrow gymnastics when Mat the Coffee Guy returns with a fresh plate of fragrant banana bread and offers you free samples. You're not so big on sweets, but Amanda is uttery seduced. One thing that's both adorable and frustrating with teenagers is the way they always fall for basic marketing techniques. Now you're basically forced to come back, it's Psychology 101. 

There is a brief and painfully awkward interaction during which Mat uses the line "you know it, baby!", and you use it back. Both of you cringe. Should you even be _allowed_ to socialize at this point?

The conversation somehow reaches new heights of awfulness when Mat assures you that "it sounds better when _you_ say it", which gets you blushing furiously even though you're fairly sure it wasn't intended as a come-on. You completely clam up after that, and try your best to disappear into the couch. Amanda is trying her best not to laugh.

Your sandwich is pretty tasty, at least. You focus on eating and chatting with your daughter for a while, and things almost begin to feel comfortable.

As your eyes sweep across the room, a man catches your eye. He's sitting by himself, frowning at his beverage. He's got dark rings under his eyes to rival yours, but that doesn't make him any less attractive. He's wearing a leather jacket, and he's got that scruffy look you've always been a sucker for. _Well hello, Daddy,_ your brain supplies. If _this_ stranger wanted to call you "baby", you might not object as much. The combination of dark features, broad shoulders and a three day beard just happens to send your mind straight into the gutter, and there's nothing you can do about it. (Okay, maybe the jacket is kind of doing it for you, too. Alex used to wear one when he went biking, before he decided you both needed to turn into Responsible Adults. You'd mourned the loss of that jacket more than the motorcycle itself.)

The man's eyes meet yours for an instant and you hastily look away, hoping he didn't catch you staring. You're sitting across from your teenage kid and feeling distinctly like you're the one back in high school. Are you blushing again? You're probably blushing again. Why don't you ask Amanda to pass notes over to the guy while you're at it?

Maybe your daughter is right. You need to get out more. Meet people. Maybe start dating again, instead of inappropriately ogling random strangers in coffee shops and getting flustered over nothing. Who knows? They say it takes all sorts. Someone out there probably finds pathetic middle-aged recluses sexy... And if you're lucky, they won't even turn out to be a serial killer!


	2. The Cookies

You unpack the bathroom first because a) essentials functions must be performed in there, and b) it's the smallest room of the house. Hopefully, finishing it quickly will boost your morale until you feel ready to tackle the bigger challenges. Acting like an adult often means finding ways to trick yourself into doing the stuff nobody likes to do. You’re not great at it, but you wouldn’t be worthy of your #1 Dad mug if you didn’t at least try!

Amanda gets to work on her own bedroom, and that's all the help you expect to get from her, so you're pleasantly surprised when you find her in the kitchen half an hour later, taking dishes out of their newspaper wrapping and sticking them in the dishwasher. 

You're not too worried about getting the kitchen in order, because you already know you'll be too exhausted to do more than order pizza and fries at the end of the day. You get to work unpacking the living room instead, since you'll be needing a place to set all that junk food down and a comfortable spot to watch Long Haul Ice Road Paranormal Ghost Truckers from. Priorities.

A couple hours pass and you get to the point where you can actually walk through the living room without tripping over boxes. You spent a lot of time alphabetizing the bookcase, but it's the sort of organizing ritual that helps you keep your anxiety in check, so it's not exactly a waste as far as you're concerned.

You're getting hungry, but it's still a little early to order dinner. That’s what you get for bypassing breakfast and getting lunch early! Do pizza places even deliver at 4 p.m.? Would the delivery guy give you funny looks or expect a bigger tip?

You pull out your phone, activate geolocation and pull out your favorite food delivery app to see if anything is open. Technology is a sociophobe’s best friend — you see no reason to speak to some grumpy stranger with an incomprehensible accent on the phone if it can be avoided. You would honestly rather starve than use your phone the traditional way.

After comparing menus, pricing and contradictory reviews for every pizza place in a 5 mile radius, you still haven't come close to making a decision. You toss your phone onto the couch and just about have a heart attack when the doorbell suddenly rings. You don’t even know anyone around here, how can you be attracting visitors?! God, you hope it’s not some door-to-door salesman. You still haven’t figured out how to get rid of those people.

You open the door wearily. A handsome, clean-cut man is standing at your door, brandishing a plate of cookies. The first thing you notice is his pink polo shirt, because he's so tall it's at your eye level, and _damn,_ does he fill that thing out nicely. You'd never thought the golf dad look could be attractive on anyone, but this guy could probably make a dirty wifebeater and sweat pants look hot. He’s built like a life-size action figure, with a face like you’d only normally see on tv. He's got blond hair, blue eyes, and a jaw so square it would make Christopher Reeve cry in shame.

Come to think of it, he’s not so much a Superman look-alike as he is a fitter, sexier real-life version of Mr. Incredible. If his voice sounds anything like Craig T. Nelson's, you're just going to drop to the floor and start rolling around like your clothes are on fire.

"Hi! I'm Joseph. I'm your next door neighbor. I saw the moving truck this morning and I would have stopped by, but the kids were getting late for Sunday school, so..."

As it turns out, his voice isn't anything like Nelson's, but it's deep enough to make you shudder, and you are positively shocked with yourself when you need to replay his words in your head again, because you were too busy staring and drooling to catch their meaning the first time around.

You manage to croak some kind of greeting. Look at you, interacting like a semi-functional sentient life form!

"...Anyway, I brought you some cookies. My daughter Christie wanted me to let you know that she baked them herself." He leans way too close as he stage whispers the next part. "But between you and me, she just sprinkled in the chocolate chips." 

You both share a laugh, but yours has a tinge of hysteria to it. You weren't prepared to deal with a hot (probably married, probably religious) stranger on your front porch. You kind of want to run away and hide under your bed.

Luckily, Amanda chooses this moment to appear next to you, dutifully distracting the hot neighbor and allowing your heart a few precious seconds to calm down.

"Wow, are those homemade cookies? I like this guy already!"

Joseph hands her the plate of cookies with an amused smile, and Amanda offers him a big grin in return. Then she weasels out with her sugary tribute before you even have a chance to properly introduce them to one another. So much for backup...

You sigh. "That was my daughter, Amanda. She's a real charmer."

"Daughters are tough," Joseph laughs. "Sons are also tough. Children in general are just... Tough."

"I hear ya! There would have to be something seriously wrong with you to try and raise more than two."

Joseph grimaces. "I've got four of them."

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE.

"Oh, uh... I meant --"

"Don't worry. You didn't mean to be rude." _You're just a natural at it,_ you hear in subtext.

You gulp like cartoon character. Wow, you really messed that one up. You're pretty sure you're blushing again, now. Is it too late to pack up and move again? 

Joseph's eyes sweep across your living room. "Is the missus around?"

You wince. "Uh, no. Not anymore. I mean, there was never..." 

Here comes the difficult part. You hesitate, unsure how to proceed. Joseph's eyebrows twist as he realizes that he has somehow managed to stoop to your level, jumping right onto a conversational landmine with both feet. You shake your head, trying to come up with the right words to explain your weird family situation to this obviously conservative stranger (the man has four kids and _wears a sweater as a shawl_ , you rest your case). 

"My partner, Alex, passed away. He was Amanda's biological father. We used a donor, you know?" You grimace again at your own choice of words. The term "used" makes it sound so disrespectful. The girl was a nice human being and you're eternally grateful to her for the wonderful gift she has provided you with, but that's as far as her involvement in Amanda's life is ever going to go. Some little girls just do not have mothers. A lot of people find this concept difficult to deal with.

"...Oh." The funny look on Joseph's face tells you that he is trying (and for the moment, failing) to wrap his mind around the information. You do appreciate that he refrains from commenting further. A lot of the other parents you've met over the years were not so courteous.

You stand in uncomfortable silence for a moment, doing your best to avoid eye contact. You wonder if Mr. Incredible will run straight to the other neighbors after this to share the juicy gossip, or if he'll leave that honor to his wife. Hopefully this is a relatively tolerant neighborhood... Even if it isn't, you doubt they're going to round up a posse and chase you out. What are they going to do, tell their kids not to play with yours? Amanda's all grown up now, anyways. She's got her own little clique to hang out with. Besides, she's good at winning people over.

And hey, maybe this isn't all bad. You'd been dreading the ripping of this particular band-aid, and now it's done. One way or another, people were going to find out -- you may not be the most sociable person out there, but you're no closet case either, and Amanda is an extraverted young lady who isn't at all shy about her origins.

Still, you wish you would have come up with a less awkward way of explaining your relationship to your own daughter over the seventeen years she has been a part of your life. "So, yeah...," you continue awkwardly. "It's just the two of us, now."

Joseph's expression turns politely contrite. "Uh... I'm sorry for your loss."

You do your best to smile politely in return. "It's alright."

It doesn't occur to you to ask if he's married. There's just something so _conventional_ about him that makes you certain he's got a perfect housewife to go with his four perfect kids. Not that you’re saying the man is plain — in some respects, you’d even call him exceptional... 

Ugh, you've gotta stop ogling all these straight guys! It's not good for your mental health. Especially if you're going to keep making a fool of yourself in front of them. You wish this one would just go away and let you sink under the floor boards.

Joseph clears his throat awkwardly. "I'm sorry, would you mind closing the door real quick?"

You look at him quizzically, but he seems to mean it, so you comply. After a second, there’s a knock on the door. Opening it, you see Joseph standing there with a friendly smile.

"Hey, I'm your new neighbor, Joseph! I promise to not talk about your dead spouse this time. I'm throwing a barbecue for the cul-de-sac next weekend and I'd love for you to join us and meet the rest of our little community. Wha'd'ya say, pal?"

You decide to keep the fact that Alex wasn’t exactly your _spouse_ to yourself. You've probably rocked this man’s values enough for one day. "That sounds great!," you say instead. "My daughter Amanda and I would love to stop by. Also, four is a perfectly normal amount of children to have." 

He laughs heartily and you shake hands to seal the deal.

"Well neighbor, I'll see you at 3 p.m. sharp on Saturday."

He winks. Hot guys can get away with winking without it being completely creepy and lame, you discover.

"Sounds good, neighbor!" ...Ugh. That sounded so much better in your head.

Joseph starts walking away, but stops to think for a second and turns around. "Hey, in all seriousness, raising a kid on your own can't be easy. If you ever need to talk about things, I'm the youth minister at the church just down the street."

Even though it was pretty obvious from the moment he mentioned bible school, you're still kind of disappointed to find out he really is one of those ultra-religious types. But hey, he's not launching into a tirade about all the different ways you'll be tortured in hell for your 'lifestyle', so you'll return his earlier favor and refrain to comment. "I wouldn't exactly call myself a youth," you joke instead.

"You look pretty young to me, but suit yourself!" He gives you a charming smile before walking away. You end up staring after him in a daze until he disappears into a house across the street. It's basically a mansion compared to yours. Those multiple kids need multiple bedrooms, you suppose. 

Huh. There's a boat anchor right above his front door. That strikes you as an odd choice of decoration. Maybe you’ll ask him about it next time.

Gah, you should have asked him if he had a pizza place to recommend!

"He seemed nice," Amanda remarks, causing you to jump three feet into the air. How long has she been standing there?!


	3. (You can skip this)

I accidentally posted this chapter twice and don't know how to fix it, so... just click Next, please! Sorry about that.

\-- Sim


	4. The Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dadsona starts cussing in this chapter. If you like my usual stories, that probably doesn't bother you much, but I just thought I'd mention it since some of you may find this to be out-of-character.

You're riding shotgun in the Dogbone brothers' delivery van, which is speeding alarmingly across the Canadian tundra. There's barely any traffic this far north, which means no cops around to keep Callum's racing instincts in check. You're not as freaked out by this as you should be. That should be your first clue that something is terribly wrong with this setting.

The bulk of your attention is directed towards the back of the truck, where Flynt is simultaneously messing with the EMP detection equipment and arguing with you over the best way to remove ectoplasm from upholstery. He's also shirtless, for some reason. You've tried not to stare, but it's physically impossible. You're sure there's some science law that mathematically explains this.

In the back of your mind, you vaguely notice Callum cursing under his breath as the truck swerves dangerously on the ice. Flynt looks up from his machine and you feel a little thrill as his eyes bore into yours. _"Tha's as clear 's I kin mayke it,"_ he tells you in his funny bottom-of-the-bayou accent that always takes you a while to parse. He's been trying to find a frequency that would allow you to hear your fourth passenger, the ghost of a former real estate agent from Talahassee, Florida. Apparently the thing has a message for you, specifically...? You hope it's not a sales pitch, because you already have a house, and you're not interested in relocating to the South, thank you very much.

So you listen closely, but you still can't hear much aside from a whooshy sort of whine that may as well be wind. There's some bits in there that reminds you vaguely of a record playing backwards, but it's so faint, you're not entirely sure you're not imagining it. None of it is intelligible, that's for sure. You shake your head. "Sorry, man. Still sounds like gibberish to me."

Flynt looks disappointed, but his reply is drowned out by a sudden buzzing in your ears. You yelp as the ghost materializes right in front of you and hisses way too close to your face.

_"YOU'RE GOING TO DIE."_

You scramble as far back as your seatbelt will allow. The truck suddenly veers off-road and launches into a series of jumps as Callum curses and shouts: _"Damn ghoasts done took control ah the truck! Bettah hoald tight!"_

The ghost's freaky translucent face suddenly morphs into a woman's, and you try to scream but you're paralyzed with fear. Cold sweat runs down your spine as the apparition opens it mouth far too wide and says:

"Dad?"

"Hmgh! Wha — ?"

Amanda jumps back when you accidentally bat her hand away.

There is a split second during which you belatedly recognize the face of the lady who sold you this house. Then you blink and the lingering vision is gone, replaced by your daughter's big brown eyes and concerned expression.

"Sorry! I wasn't sure if I should wake you up, but you looked like you were having a nightmare, so..."

You glance at the tv, which is playing the Long Haul Paranormal Ice Road Ghost Truckers ending credits. You feel paradoxically way too young to be falling asleep in front of your favorite tv shows, and way too old to be having nightmares about them.

"It's fine," you say, voice choked with sleep and leftover fear hormones. "Let's, uh... What time is it? Let's clear the table."

"Sure." She walks to the tv and switches it off, since the remote is still hiding in a box somewhere. You try not to let your relief show as the living room falls silent again.

Amanda stretches a hand towards you. "Let's go, old man," she says, pulling you to your feet. You're forced to admit the accuracy of the epithet when your stiff back muscles force a groan out of you. There's also a kink in your neck, reminding you not to fall asleep in an odd position again.

You grab the empty dishes while Amanda bends down to pick up the lone slice of leftover pizza. She does this ever so delicately, like it's an ancient artifact on the verge of crumbling. "Come here, beautiful," she tells the leftovers. "Let’s go find something to wrap you in!"

——————————

The window behind the kitchen sink is a nice perk that didn't figure into your decision to buy this house, but should have. There's nothing spectacular about the neighbor's yard, but you get to watch the sun set over it as you wash the dishes. Amanda is standing next to you with a rag on her shoulder, but both of her hands are occupied with her cell phone. This is usually how your dish-washing routine goes -- she'll clear the dish rack once you manage to fill it to the brim, and not a second before. That's okay. You both know her real job is moral support, since nothing is quite as boring or demoralizing as doing housework alone. You don't know how you'll manage once she leaves for college. You might need to switch to using paper plates.

"Emma R. and Emma P. want to come over tonight, is that okay?," Amanda asks without looking up from her phone.

You can't help but grimace. "Tonight? _Why?_ "

"They want to check out the house."

"But we haven't even finished unpacking yet, the place is a mess!"

"That's kind of the point...?"

You wrinkle your brow. "Wouldn't you rather show it to them once it's all nice and put together?"

"No," she laughs, looking at you like you're being silly rather than sensible. "That would defeat the purpose! They're gonna help me decorate, duh."

Oh... Aspiring art students. Right. You're pretty sure their idea of decorating won't include anything helpful like putting up the curtains or making sure picture frames are properly nailed into the walls... But you suppose whatever they come up with won't hurt, either. You shrug. "Okay, if you're sure. We don't have snacks for them or anything, though. I was gonna hit the grocery store in the morning."

"We'll be fine, Pops."

"I guess we can let them fight over the last slice of pizza in the fridge..."

She scoffs. "No way! That's my breakfast! I'll just have them pick up snacks on the way."

You don't think Amanda's friends will be thrilled to spend their own pocket money on soda and chips when they’re used to them being provided for free, but you're too tired to argue. "Okay," you say instead, shifting your attention back to the task at hand. You're washing the last plate, which is the one Joseph brought over earlier. He's probably going to want this back at some point. Maybe you should bake something in return. Is that a thing people do?

As you set the foreign plate down to dry, you realize Amanda has been neglecting both the dishes and her phone in favor of staring at you. That's not really part of the routine.

"What's up, sweetie?"

"Oh. Nothing," she says, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "Just... Wondering if you'll be sticking around, or...?"

You sigh. "Let me guess... You need me out of the way because I'm painfully uncool?"

A guilty expression crosses her face. "You don't have to leave," she backpedals, waving her hands like she's washing an invisible car. "We'll mostly just be hanging out in my room. It's just that you usually prefer to, um —"

She toys with a strand of hair that escaped her ponytail. You think it's sweet, the way she's obviously trying to spare your feelings, even though she isn't very skilled at it.

"It's fine," you interrupt to put her out of her misery. "I already have plans for tonight, anyway." It's a lie, of course, but you'll come up with something. You hadn't really thought about it because you're still kind of sleepy and out of it, but she's right — you usually elect not to stay in the house while your teenage kid is entertaining friends. Especially the Emmas. One of them always looks like she's terrified of you (though Amanda swears this applies to all men and you shouldn't be taking it personally), and the other seems to find you attractive, which is even worse. You don't know how to act around either of them. After the day you've had, you're all socialed out, anyway.

Amanda lifts an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? What plans?"

You blurt out the first dumb thing that comes into your mind. "I'm going clubbing! Gonna put on a nice outfit and go tear it up on the dance floor. All the hottest dance moves... The lawnmower, the sprinkler, the running man. You know, the ones all the kids these days are doing."

She tries her best to keep a straight face. "Uh-huh. Have fun. Call me if you pull a muscle!"

"Just kidding," you add, like it wasn't obvious. "I'm just going to find a place where I can sit, have a beer and watch the game."

The look she gives you is no less skeptical than before. "What game?"

"You know... The Game. The one that's on tonight. Duh."

"Riiiight... Cool. While you do that, I'm gonna do drugs and commit some light arson with the Emmas."

You throw her a mock-glare. "Hey! No burning down this house, remember? You promised!"

She crosses her arms, eyebrow raised in challenge. "I did no such thing." 

You squint your eyes at her. "Repeat after me, young lady: _I solemnly declare..."_

She rolls her eyes. "I solemnly declare".

_"...that I shall henceforth..."_

"That I shall henceforth."

 _"...keep away from all explosive combustion hazards, including, but not limited to: propane, turpentine --_ "

"Ooh, that reminds me!," she interrupts, grabbing your fingers so that you'll stop counting flammable reagents on them. "Can I paint a mural in my room?"

You consider the question for a moment. It's hard to think of reasons to say no, when your daughter is staring at you with stars in her eyes. You shrug again. "I don't see why not...?"

She gasps like it's Christmas morning. "Really?!"

You're not sure why she expected you to say no, but she sounds so excited, you can't help but grin back. "Sure! It's not every day you get to have an art major decorate your walls."

She actually blushes, which is completely adorable (and a rare phenomenon, given her skin tone). "I'm not an art major _yet_. I still haven't heard back from any of the schools..."

You smile affectionately and tuck the rebel strand of hair she's been toying with behind her ear. "They'd be crazy not to take you, Panda."

"Aw. Thanks, Dad!" She throws her arms around you and squeezes 'til you can't breathe.

You mean it, too. Amanda may not be your biological daughter, but her drawing skills are on par with yours. She's got a good eye for photography as well, and she inherited Alex's musical talent (something your brief stint in a garage band demonstrated you were sorely lacking). Back when the other kids were making macaroni pictures, Amanda was turning them into 3D sculptures. She's an artist through-and-through, and you're damn proud that she's your kid.

"No need to thank me," you add when she releases you. "I'm sure your mural will double the value of this house. Just make sure to put some tarp over everything so you don't end up with Jackson Pollock bedroom furniture, okay?"

"You got it!" She bounces excitedly. "It's still in the car, right? I'll go get it right now!"

"And no oil paints!," you call after her as she takes off running towards the garage. (You were halfway serious about her pledge to keep away from turpentine. She doesn't need to be breathing this crap.)

"Yes sir!," she yells back. "I'm thinking acrylic or gouache!"

You nod approvingly, even though she isn't around to see it. Acrylic paint and gouache are both good choices. On the off chance that her creation _doesn't_ turn out to be a masterpiece, at least she won't have any trouble getting wall paint to adhere on top of it. Plus, she won't need to clean her brushes with industrial solvents that give off toxic fumes. It's win-win.

\--------------------

The (still unfamiliar) doorbell rings just as you step out of the shower. This time, your mini-heart attack is accompanied by a wave of pure terror at the thought of getting caught by one of the Emmas (or both) while wearing just a towel. The flirty one would probably swoon, and the other one would shriek. _Someone_ would end up traumatized for life, and you're not entirely sure it wouldn't be you.

You scramble for a towel and run into the hall, wet feet slipping on the wooden floor. You have just enough time to dive into your bedroom and slam the door closed before you hear the girls' excited squeals a short distance away. Those three hang out constantly, but from the way they greet each other, you'd swear they hadn't seen each other for a year.

You quickly dry yourself off before grabbing random clothes from the pile on your bed (you haven't yet gotten around to hanging them up yet, you'll need to take care of it when you get back unless you want to be sleeping in one big laundry pile.) You end up putting on one of the many outfits Amanda chose for you: fitted black jeans and a white t-shirt with red trim and a distressed heart print on the front pocket. Not exactly the manliest top you own, but you're just grateful it's not soaked in rainbow glitter -- your kid doesn't share your opinion that your sexual orientation doesn't need to be advertised on all of your clothes. Then again, if your straight conservative _priest_ of a neighbor can project absurd amounts of confidence while rocking a pink polo shirt, you should be able to handle wearing a shirt with a goddamn heart printed on it. Why are hearts considered girly, anyway? Men have them too, as far as you know. That's some sexist bullshit right there.

That decides it. You're wearing the shirt.

The girls have retreated to Amanda's bedroom, and her door is nearly closed, so you're able to slip past it without having to greet the Emmas on the way out. You feel guilty about it as soon as you're outside, which is typical of most of your social interactions (or lack thereof) these days. No matter what choices you make in social settings, it always feels like they are the wrong ones. Maybe you're just being paranoid, but it wouldn't have killed you to at least shout a simple "I'm off, you girls have fun!" from the other side of the door. With the way you keep avoiding them, Amanda's friends probably think you don't like them. You should be making more of an effort to make them feel welcome in your home. You wonder if sending Amanda a text now would seem like too much of an afterthought to be considered polite...

[](https://imgur.com/KZ6jWT3)

You delete the winky face, and then put it back in. Then you stare dumbly at the message with your thumb hovering over the send button until you realize that the girls can probably see you hesitating in the driveway through Amanda's bedroom window ( _note to self: install curtains tomorrow)_ , so you hit send in a panic and practically jog away. Way to not look like a creep.

The breeze is not as warm as it was earlier. Maybe you should have brought a light jacket. You probably should have also taken the time to dry your hair... It's gonna look all weird, now. Not that you usually style it in the mirror or anything. It seems like you're losing more of it every time you look at your reflection, so you usually avoid looking at all. You suppose you should consider yourself lucky that it started thinning as late as it did -- your father was practically bald by the time he hit 25.

You pull out your phone again to look up the location of the nearest sports bar/pub on Google Maps, but a text message from your provider helpfully informs you that you've already used 90% of your available data for the month. Fucking great.

You quickly turn off all of the relevant settings to preserve what little data you've got left. You know how to get to Main Street from here, anyways. How hard can it be to find a place that serves alcohol at... _Shit,_ 9 pm on a Sunday. Everything's gonna be either closed or deserted. The only thing more unpleasant than being trapped in an overcrowded establishment is being the only patron in said establishment. Maybe you should just turn around and head home. But, ugh... Awkward hallway conversations with the Emmas...

Maybe you'll just find a park and lie down on the bench like a hobo. You're _probably_ far enough from downtown for the parks to be free of actual hobos.

Unfortunately, being far from downtown also means Main Street doesn't have a whole lot to offer. Looks like you weren't lying when you told Amanda that this was just a quiet residential neighborhood. You end up following the moth approach, gravitating towards any lit up window or sign, entertaining yourself by reading them out loud and mentally cataloguing the ones that may be useful later. With any luck, you'll end up stumbling upon the kind of establishment wherein a lone stranger can whet their metaphorical whistle, and it will be occupied by no fewer than 5 strangers, and no more than, say, 30. You're not asking for much, here! You just want a hideout, it doesn't have to be fancy. A restaurant that serves alcohol would probably do. A bar would be ideal, though, since they won't kick you out early.

After about 10 minutes of walking and shivering in the cool breeze, you're on the verge of pulling your phone back out for some GPS assistance when you finally spot a semi-burnt out neon sign that reads "Jim and Kim's", accompanied by the tacky outline of a martini glass. The place looks completely decrepit, but that's fine. It means there won't be too many people in it.

The inside is not as rundown as the peeling façade would have you believe. The place is dimly lit, and the music is playing at an unobtrusive level. It's nowhere near packed, but there are enough patrons of varying age groups to allow you to blend in. You can hear the crack of pool balls coming from the back of the room. Not too intimidating an atmosphere, all in all.

No one is currently sitting at the bar, so you plop down onto a stool (the old-fashioned spinning kind) and wait for the cute bartender to notice you. You wonder if he's the owner, and if his name is Jim. He looks vaguely asian, so you suppose he could also be Kim. Jim seems more plausible, though. You bet Kim is his wife.

As he turns to face you, the outrageously out-of-season Christmas lights suspended above his head make his earring sparkle. Right ear only. Kim probably isn't his wife, then... Though he _is_ wearing a wedding band.

"What can I get you?"

"Just a beer, please. Whatever you've got on tap."

He gives you an unimpressed look. "Gonna have to narrow it down a bit for me, champ." He waves towards a menu scribbled right onto the chalkboard-painted wall, then gestures to the impressive row of taps behind him.

"Oh! Uh." Somehow, you weren't expecting this place to carry anything fancier than Budweiser. You squint at the half-illegible options and pick the first item you can make out clearly, which is the one written in capital letters. "I'll have a pint of the IPA, then."

"Sure thing, boss." He turns back towards his taps, and you nervously pick at the dry skin around your fingernails until he returns. Yikes, now your thumb is bleeding. It would be weird if you stuck it in your mouth, right? Ugh, why are you such a nervous wreck, you're just here to have a beer, for christ's sake...

You watch the blood dry on your thumb, resisting the impulse to suck on it like a toddler until the bartender arrives with your drink. He slides the drink over and watches as you take a first tentative sip. It tastes like grapefruit. You struggle not to grimace. Grapefruit is the worst citrus.

"How is it?"

"Not bad," you lie. He doesn't go away, so you add: "So... Are you Jim or Kim?"

He answers with a blank stare. "I'm Neil."

"...Oh."

You feel yourself blush a little, and try to hide behind your drink. How many times have you already blushed today? Enough to meet your quota, that's for sure. You wish you had Amanda's darker skin tone so your face would stop giving away your embarrassment away so easily. She still blushes occasionally, but at least she doesn't telegraph her every emotion the way you do.

Sure enough, you can hear Neil chuckle under his breath. "Enjoy your drink. Let me know if you need anything else. Kitchen's still open for another hour." You nod and pointedly look at anything but his face. Oh hey, would you look at that, they have a tv in the corner. It's even broadcasting a Game of some sort, so you'll have something to report on when you get home.

To be perfectly honest, you've never really understood the appeal of televised sports. You're not even sure what type of sport is being played here, because the camera is currently focused on a mascot's antics. Not only do you not recognize it, you don't even know what kind of animal it's supposed to be. All you can tell is that it's messing with members of the crowd in a way that you suppose normal people would find entertaining. Personally, you would hate to have your hat stolen by an inappropriately handsy furry, but you're looking at this through a double filter of LGBT culture and acute social anxiety, so.

The tv cuts to a commercial break and a stranger apparently chooses this moment to invade your personal bubble. You try to ignore the middle-aged woman as she sits uncomfortably close to you, but you're pretty much forced to pay attention to her when her pointy fingernails start tapping your forearm. 

"Heeeeey, sailor," she slurs. She's holding a wine glass in a dangerously loose grip, causing the dark liquid to slosh close to the rim. "Good to see some fresh meat in here."

You gape at her, struck speechless by the clumsy flirting attempt. How much has she had to drink? Her head is kind of lolling to the side. God, you hope she has friends around to help her get home in one piece. Should you ask...?

"I'm Mary. Come here often?"

You wrinkle your brow. If she can tell you're new, doesn't that imply that you're _not_ here often? You're not sure it's worth pointing this out to her in her current state. Also, her hand is now on your thigh. Whoa.

"Are you watching the game?," she asks before you can figure out what to say to get rid of her as gently as possible. You don't want her to rebound onto the next stranger, who may not be as queer or scrupulous as you are, but your concern is very much overwhelmed by your desire to _make her go away._ Does this make you an asshole? You're pretty sure this makes you an asshole.

"Yes," you lie, glancing back to the screen. "Always nice when the team you're rooting for is in the lead, ha ha..." You glance at the screen. It's still playing commercials.

"Big soccer fan, huh?" She lets herself slump over the counter, mercifully releasing your leg in the process, before aiming a suggestive smile your way. "I _do_ love someone who knows their way around balls..."

Wait, is she saying your gay is showing? Wasn't she flirting with you just a moment ago? Is she hiding a dick under that skirt? You're confused.

"Buy a gal a drink?"

Yeeeah, not a chance. "Uh... Maybe some other time?"

"Suit yourself, sailor." She saunters off, setting her sights on the newest bar patron to enter. Great, that's just what you didn't want to happen.

Oh. It looks like that guy is turning her down as well. That's probably good, right? You quickly turn your focus back on The Game when Mary starts looking around again. The last thing you need is for her to interpret your staring as a sign of interest.

You try to follow the action on the screen as closely as you can, tuning out the little voice that keeps whispering what-if scenarios. You can't be responsible for the choices of every drunk chick you encounter. (You don't know why that thought makes you feel guiltier. Amanda's right, you _are_ a mother hen.)

You're not that knowledgeable about soccer, but it is kind of nice to watch, even though you can't make sense of some of the referee's interventions. After a particularly skilled player feints, then scores a showy goal against the team you're pretending to root for, you hear an approbative grunt from another man two seats away from you. You jolt, because you hadn't noticed him approaching the bar at all, and then you do a double-take when you notice what he's wearing.

It's the man from The Coffee Spoon. You're sure of it. He's got the same leather jacket on, and he looks just as handsome as he did this morning. 

When he turns to meet your suprised stare, you shock yourself by initiating conversation. "Enjoying the game?"

"I am now that we're winning." He's got the husky voice of someone who probably started sneaking cigarettes at age 10 and hasn't looked back since. You really shouldn't be finding that attractive, stop it.

You smirk. "I guess that makes us enemies." What the hell? Are you trying to be smooth, now? There's a panicked little man running around inside your head and screaming _"Abort! Abort!"_

Hot Leather Jacket Guy raises his glass. "May the best team win." 

You raise yours in return, before realizing that it's pretty much empty.

"What are you drinking?"

You scrunch up your nose. "Carbonated grapefruit juice, as far as I can tell. Got anything better to recommend?"

He chuckles. "Got you covered. Hey Neil," he calls over his shoulder. "Can I get two more shots? Something smokier this time."

Your eyes boggle as he knocks back his whiskey in one go — _holy shit, his throat must be on fire_ — just as the bartender sets two more glasses filled with amber liquid on the counter. The man slides one of them over, smoothly transitioning to the seat next to you and giving you heart palpitations in the process.

"...Name's Robert," he says, clinking his glass against yours before lifting it to his face to inhale the drink -- first in the literal sense, and then the figurative one. "Nice choice," he tells Neil, who seems to have decided to just stay and hang out for some reason.

You do your best to conceal how flustered you are as you thank Robert for the drink and introduce yourself to both him and the overly friendly barman. It looks like they're friends...? Either that, or Robert just comes here a lot.

They make small talk that you feel helplessly left out of, until a pink-haired girl in a faded AC⚡︎DC shirt calls Neil over to the other side of the bar. "Don't go scaring off my customer, now," he jokes at Robert's attention before walking off to take the girl's order.

Robert spins in his seat to face you and you find yourself unconsciously doing the same. He really does have an unfairly handsome face. "I guess you're new here," he muses. "Mary already hit on you?"

You wince. "Kinda."

Robert chuckles again. "It grows on you, I swear. She's a peach."

"If you say so." You're tempted to let him know just how painfully _not into peaches_ you are, but you don't want to make your interaction any more awkward than it already is. There _may_ be a slight chance that buying you a drink was some sort of gay overture, but you really wouldn't bet on it. He just doesn't seem the type.

"So, uh...," you continue as eloquently as ever, "I take it you guys are friends? I was, uh. Kind of hoping she didn't come here alone. Kinda looks like someone should be looking after her, at least to make sure she gets home okay..."

A genuine smile spreads on Robert's face in response to your concern, highlighting a dimple, and you feel yourself sinking. Of course he gets even more handsome when he smiles. You're not going to delude yourself into thinking you have a shot with him. For all you know, he probably has a thing for his 'peach' of a friend. His timing is suspicious, come to think of it... He probably only started talking to you to see if you should be counted as competition. You bet he'll be moving on to Mary's next victim soon enough.

You take a look around the room and sure enough, there she is, sitting in a very uncomfortable-looking young man's lap while sipping on a freshly-refilled wine glass. When she glances back in your direction, you realize she's probably just putting on a show for Robert's attention. If so, you wish they would just _talk_ to each other instead of dragging this whole place's clientele into their cat-and-mouse game.

"She's okay, don't worry," Robert assures you. There is no mistaking the fondness in his voice. "She's playing it up right now, but that girl can handle her liquor. Plus she's got me on lookout for creepers, and Neil's gonna be driving her home at the end of his shift. It's kind of the routine."

Oh, so he's talking to you to make sure you're not some roofie-dispensing psycho, then. That's good, you suppose. At least you can stop worrying.

"So you're both regulars, huh?," you ask, barely keeping the disappointment out of your voice. The man of your dreams comes over and offers you a drink, _of course_ his hidden motive is not the one you would hope for. It's alright, you weren't exactly looking to hook up. This isn't that type of bar, anyway.

"It's the best pub in town! Seedy as it is, you'll never find a better spot than Jim and Kim's."

"Does this place actually belong to a Jim and/or Kim?"

"Nah. Neil owns it."

You hum, not sure what to do with the information. You take a sip of your drink, and your eyes go wide. You thought whiskey was all fire and soapy aftertaste, but this one is smokey-sweet and unexpectedly delicious.

"What _is_ this?," you ask in awe.

"Laphroaig, Quarter Cask. Kind of a new product that aims to replicate an old one... You more of a whiskey fella or a beer fella?"

"I would have said beer, but this stuff is amazing!"

He watches in amusement as you take a few more tiny sips. "Are you gonna drink that, or are you gonna give it little kitten licks all night?"

"Drinking this without tasting it would be a sacrilege," you declare with a solemn nod.

He laughs, and a fuzzy happy feeling blooms inside your chest. Is this what making friends feels like?

Your eyes trace over his face, noting the shape of his brows, the laugh lines at the corner of his heavy-lidded brown eyes, the way the light hits his cheekbone. Your fingers twitch. You really want to draw him. You haven't drawn anything but houses in _years._

"...Something wrong?"

"No! I uh. Your face is... Good." What the hell are you saying?! Oh god, you need to find some way to disappear...

"...Thanks?" You can hear the amusement in his voice, although you can't see it on his face because _you're too embarrassed to look in his direction ever again._

Your face heats up, and you're forced to resort to the hide-in-your-drink technique once again. On the bright side, it at least occupies your traitorous mouth so you can't embarrass yourself any further. Would anyone believe you if you blamed the redness in your cheeks on the alcohol? ...Yeah, you didn't think so.

Somehow, you manage to drink the entirety of your whiskey without even coughing. It's like your whole body so focused on your social predicament that it forgets to rebel at this second form of self-imposed torture. Sweet, smokey, delicious torture that burns all the way down and warms up every single one of your alveoli.

Next to you, Robert finishes his own drink and orders another round. Hold on just a minute -- how many of these has he knocked back already? He doesn't even look slightly buzzed, what the hell? You don't even know how you'll manage to stand up after your second one. He's gonna keep buying you these until you pass out, isn't he.

"So what brings you here tonight?"

Is he seriously still making conversation with you? Hasn't he realized what a disaster you are? A really flaming gay disaster with a weakness for the bad boy stereotype, which he very much happens to fits? Did the implications of that horribly awkward thing you just said just fly over his head somehow?

"I'm, uh..." You don't even know what you're saying. "Drinking my problems away? You know, the usual."

That makes him smile, for some reason. Maybe he's just trying to put you at ease, since you're so obviously flustered.

"...No, for real, my daughter more or less kicked me out of the house," you add, trying to sound less bothered by it than you are. "I mean, it feels weird to stick around when she has friends sleeping over, you know?"

"Family-type, huh?"

"Single dad." You blush again as you belatedly realize that you just announced your single status, unprompted. It's like you keep accidentally hitting on him, even though he hasn't given you any reason to think you have a shot. Besides buying you a drink. _Two_ drinks, actually. And continuing to engage you in conversation after you pathetically blurted out that you think he's handsome... Could you be misinterpreting something here? Was buying you a drink actually a move? ...It seems a lot more far-fetched than your previous theory. You suppose it could also have been a welcoming gesture, or a "sorry my lady friend groped your thigh" kind of gesture. As those a thing? You feel like they should be a thing.

"Also I'm new in town, so I figured I should go out and meet people," you ramble on to cover your slip-up. "You, uh. You seem really cool, so..." You raise your eyes to meet his, and promptly look down again. Yeah, no matter what spin you try to put on this, it still sounds like you're desperate to get into his pants. You take one more swig of your _La Frog,_ or whatever it was called. God _damn_ that stuff is tasty, though. You still don't understand how something can be this pleasant to drink while simultaneously feeling like it's burning your taste buds clean off. Along with a few of your nose hairs. And probably some internal organs.

"That's no hard feat," he says, casually brushing off your compliment with an offhand gesture. "Anyone can be cool. The key is to care very deeply about everything, until it's so debilitating that it comes back around looking like complete indifference."

"Really?"

He gives you a flat look. "Sure."

...Okay, now you have no idea if he's serious.

Robert downs the rest of his drink like it's water. The man's liver must be made of steel. You try to follow his lead, and predictably choke. Looks like your body is beginning to pay attention again. Though you probably could have choked on thin air, given the way Robert is scrambling your brain.

You run out of things to say after this, so you watch the rest of the soccer match in relative silence, with Robert making a brief comment here and there. He downs one more shot of whiskey, whereas you switch to water, because you'd like to live to see your 43rd birthday, thank you very much.

"Be right back," he tells you as the tv switches to another commercial break. "Gotta go powder my nose." 

He doesn't sway at all when he stands up, which is honestly impressive. You stare after him as he goes, replaying his last sentence in your head. You're really hoping it was just a random joke, and not code for sniffing coke in the restrooms -- you haven't done drugs since college, and never anything beyond a quick puff on the joint that was getting passed around, so you really don't know anything about the harder stuff. What happens if he comes back all coked up and hyper? You don't think you could fight him off if he suddenly turned violent or something.

Your mind throws you a vision of getting roughly manhandled in a dark alley, which sends a little shiver down your spine. You could definitely get into that kind of scene, as long as there was a safeword involved...

Neil's voice startles you out of that little fantasy. "I've never seen Robert this talkative! He must really like you."

 _Yeah right,_ you think. _He's probably sneaking out of the restroom window as we speak._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to keep the "I love someone who knows their way around balls" joke. For anyone who's seen the cult ending, Mary's lines are solid gold.


	5. The Hookup

By the time Robert returns and settles his own (probably astronomical) tab, you've already paid off your own modest bill and your attention is back to the television, where fans of "your" team are celebrating a very narrow victory. You couldn't care less, but you still gleefully tease Robert with the results, just to see how he'll react. It backfires when he narrows his eyes at you and tells you to _prepare yourself for a pounding next time,_ leaving you with some vividly thoughts and an inappropriate semi.

"I'm gonna head home," he announces. "You heading my way?"

"Uh, sure," you answer automatically, even though you don't know what direction he lives in. Also you should probably hit the restrooms before you head out, but the timing is awkward, so... Whatever. You can hold it.

When you exit the bar and find yourselves working in the same direction, you almost sigh in relief. Honestly, you would have probably walked the wrong way if it meant spending a bit more time with your new crush. Unfortunately, he seems to have given up on small talk. Your mind is spinning, desperately trying to find something to say that wouldn’t seem awkward or inappropriate, but your conversational skills leave a lot to be desired under normal circumstances, and these are not normal circumstances.

"It's gotten a lot chillier, huh?," you eventually try. Yup, that was the best you managed to come up with after racking your brain so hard your _ears_ are probably smoking.

Robert spares you a glance, but doesn't reply. You know you really suck at talking to people when you can't keep them engaged long enough to comment on the _weather._

It really _has_ gotten chilly, though. You'd been kind of regretting wearing short sleeves on the way over, but now you're actively shivering. You keep throwing glances at Robert's jacket. Part of you wishes he'd offer it to you, if only so could feel the weight of it on your shoulders. Maybe discreetly run your fingers against the leather. He doesn't offer, of course. That would be weird.

As the silence between you stretches, you begin to wonder if you've done anything to displease him. The evening keeps replaying in your mind, and you agonize over every little choice you've made, wondering if it was the wrong one. As you approach the point where you'll need to veer off main street, you also worry over how you'll part ways. Luckily, Robert chooses this moment to finally speak.

"I live in this little cul-de-sac, just a few blocks that way." 

Your eyes widen in surprise. First, he doesn't sound upset -- he sounds _amused_. Second, he's pointing in the direction you need to go. Third... Did he just say _cul-de-sac?_ "Oh! Uh... Me too, actually. Assuming we're talking about the same one... We just moved in earlier today."

He stops walking and throws you an odd look, a little wrinkle appearing between his brows.

"Um. It's the little Prairie style place," you quickly add, so he doesn't think you're some creepy stalker trying to follow him home. "The one across the street from the white Georgian house...?"

He looks at you like you just spoke Chinese. "The what in front of the what, now?"

"Oh, sorry! Architect talk. Uh, you know that big white house with the navy shutters and an anchor above the front door?"

His frown deepens. "I know the one."

"I'm right across the street from that one. Little flat thing with the windows all in a row."

"...I see." Is it your imagination, or does he sound upset now?

"I met some of the neighbors this morning," you blather on nervously. "They seem nice...?"

"Yeah," he replies gruffly. "Some of them are."

Okay, he definitely sounds upset. Either he's got some bad history with some of the neighbors, or he's really not thrilled to learn that you are now one of them. As you both resume your awkward walk towards the cul-de-sac, you catch yourself chewing on your fingernails. The crickets chirping in the background make the silence between you even heavier than before.

When you finally arrive in view of the cul-de-sac, both of you point out your houses at the same time. Not only is Robert your next-door neighbor, _he's the next-door neighbor whose yard you gaze at while you're doing the dishes._ Shit, you're going to be reminded of this crush three times a day for the rest of your life, aren't you... You can't wrap your head around it enough to decide whether that's a good or a bad thing.

Robert turns to face you. He clearly looks amused again, so you make an effort to shake the incredulous expression off your face. He must think you're an idiot.

"So...?," he asks expectantly. "Are we doing this, or what?"

You throw him a startled look. "What?"

"You know. Do you wanna come inside or not?"

It takes a couple more seconds and a few extra eye blinks before your brain really processes what he's asking. Is this...? 

"It's alright," he adds with a smirk. "I don't kiss and tell."

Your heart speeds dangerously. Oh god, this is actually happening! How...? You're probably blushing harder than you have been in this entire evening, and that's saying something. _He likes you._ He actually likes you and is _inviting you in._ Holy shit, you didn't see this coming.

Even though your stupid anxious brain keeps trying to whisper all the myriad ways this encounter could go wrong, you know there is no way you can pass up this chance. Robert is exactly your type, he's _offering,_ and you haven’t gotten laid in forever. Your daughter is right, it’s time you lived a little.

Your voice shakes with nerves as you answer. "Yeah... Let’s do it."

It's not like you've never hooked up with strangers before. You've done your share of sleeping around, but... Hell, it was a lifetime ago, back when you were a sexy little piece of jailbait, fresh out of the closet. You're so out of your depth, now. You follow him up to the house, heart galloping a mile a minute. Part of you distantly registers details about the house, like the the fact that the second story is clearly a later addition, or the way the large weeping willow tree in front of it must be punching holes through its foundations... Mostly, you focus on how convenient it is that the tree's abundant foliage is blocking the view from Amanda's bedroom window.

Robert fumbles with his keys for a nerve-wracking moment before opening the front door and leading you inside. As soon as the door closes behind you, he pins you against the wall with both hands on your hips and kisses you roughly. You wrap your arms around his neck and moan into his mouth. It's been so long since you've done this, you'd forgotten how overwhelmingly _good_ it could feel. You're rutting against each other like teenagers and gasping for breath by the time he pulls back.

"Come on." He tugs on your hand and leads you up to his bedroom. It's dark, but the moonlight filtering in through partially closed floor-length blinds provides just enough light to let you see the intense look on his face. It's almost enough to set your clothes on fire.

He's still within kissing range, so you would be a fool not to take advantage of it. You slide your hands under his jacket to grab at the back of his shirt and pull yourself against him, which earns you a little grunt of approval. His large hand cups the back of your neck as you kiss -- fuck yeah, guys with big hands are the _best_ \-- and you tilt your head back to press into it, silently begging for more. He gets the hint, holding you in a firm grip even as he pulls back to trail kisses down your neck, teasing you with light bites that get progressively rougher as you respond with embarrassingly needy whines. When the hand behind your neck rises to tug at your hair, you silently thank every deity ever imagined.

"Are you game to step out of your comfort zone a little?," he asks in that husky voice you can't get enough of. He looks positively smug when you shiver in response.

"You have no idea what my comfort zone is," you point out. Little does he know, you've been way outside of it since about 8 o'clock this morning.

The smile he gives you is full of dark promises. "We’ll find out."

Kissing Robert is such a blissful thing that you can't help the broken whine that escapes you when he finally pulls away. You _almost_ voice an official protest when he shucks off his jacket and lets it fall loudly to the floor. The only reason you manage to keep your mouth shut is that your leather kink is currently outweighed by your need to see Robert naked as soon as possible. There will be other opportunities for the jacket to come into play, hopefully... God, you hope this isn't a one-time thing.

Robert kicks off his shoes and you quickly do the same, kicking both pairs to the side so neither of you will risk tripping over them. When he reaches for the bottom of your shirt, you raise your arms obligingly to help him undress you. He sends it flying in a random direction and his large hands begin to roam down your chest, sending trails of fire straight down to your groin.

When he starts tugging at your belt, you feel yourself hesitate. You can tell where this is headed, and it's been a long time since you've bottomed for anyone. A _really_ long time.

"Everything okay?," he asks, somehow picking up on your sudden discomfort.

You take a deep breath to calm your racing heart. "Yeah... I just, uh. I don't normally do this."

"Do you want to stop?"

"No," you answer firmly. You are _not_ going to let your stupid nerves ruin the most exciting night you've had in years. Your ass can take whatever Robert can throw at it, you decide. You'll just need to take it slow. It's not like this is your first time, you're just a little out of practice, is all. The way he reacted to your little hesitation just now is a good sign that he won't try to force you past your limits. You'll just need to be careful not to lose yourself in the moment, so you can communicate those properly.

"Good." He unbuckles your belt and undoes the button on your pants in a practiced way. It makes you wonder how many people he's brought home like this. Given how eager you were to follow him home, you're in no position to judge. You love a guy with experience, anyway -- there's a reason you keep gravitating towards older partners... But you do feel a little self-conscious at the reminder that your own bedroom skills are rusty as hell.

He pulls your jeans down just enough to expose the obvious tent in your underwear, then takes a step back to enjoy the view. It's a bit of a challenge for you to remain standing with your arms at your side as he's checking you out, because you just remembered that your boxer briefs are old enough to be from the neolithic period. The seams are coming undone in more than one spot and there's a hole the size of a quarter near the crotch. It's embarrassing, but in your defense, you weren't exactly _planning_ on getting laid tonight! Robert seems to appreciate the view regardless, so it probably doesn't matter... Or the room is dark enough to conceal their pitiful state. You're grateful either way.

Robert sure seems to be enjoying watching you shake with anticipation, if his lopsided grin is any indication. You don't think you've seen him make that kind of smile before. It's highlighting the dimple in his right cheek, a secret weapon you never knew you were so vulnerable against. Your desire to please him by doing what you think he wants (staying still, in this instance, and letting yourself get ogled), is warring with the temptation to just climb him like a cat tree and start scratching away.

"Any special requests?," he asks, catching you completely off-guard.

You stiffen (in every sense of the word) as several suggestions come to mind. It's way too early to spook him with your kinks, isn't it? You don't want to scare him off...

He's watching you curiously, a little smile floating on his lips. Fuck, he's got you all figured out, doesn't he.

Your breath quickens. There's no way you can tell him. It's too soon. You don't even know his full name yet, for fuck's sake!

His smile stretches into a knowing grin. "I see you've thought of something."

Oh, you can think of a few things, alright. Your mind is a downright filthy place, cobwebs dangling from the ceiling and all. You went through the whole kink spiral in your 20s, and came out of it with several enduring less-than-conventional interests. There's not much on your off-limits list, and a lot in the _please god yes_ column. Some entries more questionable than others, and you have it on pretty good authority that they shouldn't be divulged before Month 3, if at all.

He reaches for you again, drawing you close. His tongue finds the shell of your ear and you whimper, eyes closing without your permission. He continues to tease the sensitive skin until you're shivering, then whispers right against it. _"Tell me."_

...Well. There _is_ one thing that's been on your mind ever since you first saw him in the coffee shop. It's pretty harmless, as far as kinks go, but he'll probably still find it weird. You're still hesitant, but the man sure knows how to make his points. "Feel free to say no if this is too weird," you start nervously. "Can I, uh... Is it okay if I call you Daddy?"

He answers with a long, teasing hum, pulling back to look like he's weighing his options. That's not the _worst_ possible reaction he could have had to your unusual request, but you're feeling pretty damn vulnerable right now, so you wish he would hurry up and rip the band-aid off. You kind of need to know if you should be putting your shirt back on...

"I don’t know... Have you truly earned it? A _real_ good boy wouldn't be making me do all this work. He would already be face down on the bed with all of his clothes off and his ass in the air, begging to get fucked."

Your eyes go wide and you forget how to breathe. You finish kicking off your pants and immediately scramble onto the bed, throwing off your underwear and socks at a record speed. Your heart is beating furiously in your chest. You can't believe he's playing along with your request. Obviously you already liked Robert's looks, but _this_ really makes his hotness level spike off the charts.

He joins you on the bed, covering your body with his and kissing you senseless. You're glad he really seems to like doing that -- most guys just go straight for the dick, and while you wouldn't exactly complain about the attention, the lack of tongue action is always a little disappointing. You both taste like whiskey, and you suppose some of it must have gone to your head, because the fabric of his clothes against your bare skin shouldn't feel this maddening. You should probably slow this party down if you want the festivities to last, but you can't seem to remember how to do anything except press yourself against him and squirm like you're trying to climb under his skin.

"This," you gasp between kisses, clawing at his shirt like you want to rip it off him. "This needs to go right now."

"Calm down, baby boy."

You wince a little at the pet name. You hope he doesn't think he needs to roleplay a pedophile to get you off, because that would in fact be the fastest way to kill off your boner. You should probably mention that at some point. God, he feels so fucking good against you, though. You need him closer, with less clothes on and more tongue in your mouth.

"First, tell me what you want out of this."

"You," you pant against his lips. "Naked."

He slaps you on your thigh and you squeak in surprise.

"Sorry," he mumbles, rubbing the sting away. "Should've asked if that was okay first... You good?"

You let out a pleased little sigh. " _So_ good. Feel free to do that some more. You can go harder if you want. Or use your teeth. Or slap me in the face, whatever gets you off."

He laughs. God you love how his face looks when he laughs. There's this warmth in your chest that makes you feel half in love. You really need to put a lid on this, you're such a fucking sap.

"How far do you want me to take this?"

"Your dick in my mouth would be a good place to start," you sass. "Or my ass. I'm not picky."

He slaps you again, harder this time. "I meant with the Daddy play, you little brat." 

"Oh, uh..." Yeah, that still hasn't been addressed. Good thing one of you is still thinking clearly. "I don't need to be infantilized, if that's what you're asking. I'm just a guy who's into older dudes, I'm not..." You shake your head, struggling to think of the right words. The way Robert is grinding against you in a slow rhythm and staring at you like you're the sexiest thing on Earth is distracting in the absolute best way possible, but you should probably make an effort to get this part right. "I'm not going to go into little space or anything. Underage stuff squicks me out. I just want to get bossed around a little. If that's okay with you. Daddy."

There's that lopsided grin again. He fights to smother it, but can't manage to make it fully disappear. You kind of prefer it that way. "Then get on your knees and cross your arms behind your back," he orders, pulling back to let you up. "Hands on the opposite elbow."

"Yes, sir."

You get into position and he moves behind you, mouthing at your neck while his hands run all over your body. You let your head fall back onto his shoulder with a pleased sigh. One hand makes its way down your chest as the other wraps around your dick and gets to work. It feels heavenly, except -- _"Oh._ Wait, fuck..."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just... Maybe don't press on my bladder unless you're into golden showers, cause I've had a bunch of drinks, and..." 

Robert grins against your skin. "Might be fun to make you squirm a bit, if you think you can hold it."

"Oh, fuck. Daddy, no. Don't --"

He slaps your thigh again, and you whine in a way that makes it pretty obvious that you didn't mind that at all.

"Okay, we may need a safe word," you gasp.

"Do you need me to stop?"

"Hell no. Streetlights?"

"You got it."

His left hand resumes its delicious motion between your legs, while the right alternates between torturing you with pressure and petting you soothingly. You've done this for a partner before, but you've never had it done to yourself. It's shocking how good it feels whenever his fingertips dig into your skin. You end up twisting up against them rather than away, encouraging him to go a lot rougher than you initially thought you could handle. He works you up until you're a moaning, writhing mess, overwhelmed by urgent and conflicting signals.

"Agh, _fuck!_ Yellow, yellow, yellow," you cry out. This is fun and all, but you don't want to come just yet, or piss on his bed, or both.

He chuckles and presses love bites into your shoulder before releasing you. "There's a bathroom right across the hall. Can you see well enough to get there without tripping over all of our shit?" He gestures to the dark shapes littering the floor, some of which you suppose are your clothes.

"Yeah, I've got it. Thanks." You give him a peck on the lips, then a proper, sexier kiss for good measure. "Sorry, I'll be right back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I wrote this scene without considering that Dadsona might need a bathroom break, but when I proofread the previous chapter I was like "wait a minute, Dadsona had a beer and 2-3 shots of whiskey, probably some water chasers... Wouldn't he realize he also needs to pee as soon as Robert goes?" 
> 
> Then I realized that his social anxiety wouldn't allow him to follow Robert into the restrooms, cause that would potentially make things awkward, and he would also be too self-conscious (and distracted) to excuse himself after Robert returns. And of course, he can't turn down Robert's invitation to spend a bit more time together at the end, because that would send a bad message, and of course extra time with the crush is hard to pass up... So there was basically no way he wasn't just going to decide to hold it until he got home. 
> 
> Except... Surprise! He didn't make it home. And Robert didn't exactly take the time to give him a tour of his place before pushing things into sexual territory, so there was never a good moment to hit the pause button, really... At least until it was a choice between that and wetting the bed. Tmi?
> 
> Anyway, pausing sex is always awkward as hell, but don't worry -- Robert isn't going to let the mood fizzle out.


	6. Life, the Universe and Everything

Peeing with a boner is a tricky thing, but you're worried that the mood keeps getting deader the longer you prolong this interruption, so you can't exactly afford to wait for your dick to go soft. You manage not to spray the whole bathroom, somehow.

You _do_ take a second to eye yourself critically in the mirror before exiting, though. Your hair is a mess, but that's Robert's handiwork, so you're fine with it staying like that for a while. Nothing's stuck between your teeth or dangling from your nose, which is the important part. Nothing you can do about the rest, right now. Besides, if Robert didn't like your looks, you wouldn't be here... Right?

The bathroom light was super bright, which means the hallway is pitch-black when you exit. You hear rummaging sounds somewhere to your right, followed by a door closing, but you can't see a damn thing. That's not the direction of the bedroom, though. Utility closet, maybe? What's he getting, lube? Condom? Who keeps this stuff in the hallway?

You jump and barely hold back a yelp when fingers suddenly brush your left shoulder. You didn't think Robert was this close, or would be approaching you from this side at all. Your heart starts racing and your flagging boner snaps back to attention. 

"What's the matter, babe?," he teases. "Can't handle a little sensory deprivation?"

Oh. If he wants to mess with you, you can play along, no problem. You fucking love getting started or scared during a scene. Gives you a nice adrenaline high to go along with the rest of the chemical cocktail your brain is marinating in. You're an especially jumpy kind of guy, so the effect is easily achieved -- though you suppose anyone would feel a little jumpy in your current situation, naked and blind in a complete stranger's home. For all you know, Robert could have been rummaging for a knife. He could be holding it up to your skin right now.

Cool fingers feather up your sides, then harshly scratch their way back down, causing you to hiss and shiver all at once. It feels a little like knife play would feel, and you're struck with the irrational, vulnerable feeling that he's somehow reading your thoughts.

"You know what to say if you need me to stop," he reminds you.

"Light's green all across the board," you assure him.

"Good to know." He grabs your hands and gently leads you back to the bed. "Get back in position. We're not done yet."

You obediently get back to your knees and fold your arms behind your back. Robert sits on the bed in front of you, this time. Even though your eyesight should be readjusting, you can barely make out his features. Looks like he went and closed the blinds properly while you were gone. Not that there was that much moonlight to begin with.

"Now. Where were we..." Robert's hands run up your thighs and settle on the curve of your ass, giving it a light squeeze. That's definitely _not_ where they were before your little interruption, but you're not about to complain.

"Wanna turn on the light?," you ask before things get heavier and you stop being able to separate from each other. You'll be a little more self-conscious with the light on, but you really want to see him better. There's no telling when or if you'll ever have this chance again... You should be taking in every detail!

"Why, are you afraid of the dark?"

You kind of love that he keeps using this teasing tone with you. There's a fondness in it, like he's pleased with you for letting him have some fun. You wonder if Robert is really just... Kind of a big kid who wants to play? Albeit in some very adult ways.

"I promise the only monster in here is me," he jokes. "And I'm not gonna hurt you unless you ask _very_ sweetly."

You shiver at the sugarcoated threat. Fuck, does he know how to work you over... 

"Are you going to let me touch you?," you ask hopefully.

"Maybe. If you're good. I'm getting plenty out of this, trust me."

This simple reassurance floods you with warm, pleasant feelings. You trust him -- there's no reason for him to lie about this. He's not just humoring you, he's _enjoying_ himself. You feel like you've struck gold.

His fingers start running up your back and scratching their way back down again, making you squirm even though you're _trying_ to stay still. It definitely hurts a little, in spite of his earlier assurances. Not that you mind it at all. The part of your brain that processes pain in swimming in happy soup right now.

"Are you _sure_ you don't want to do this with the lights on?," you chance again.

He grunts in response and goes back to kneading your ass. Apparently he's satisfied with what he's got.

"Daddy, _please...,_ " you whine. "I can't touch you. Let me at least see you..."

He moans softly and releases you. "I swear, you’re gonna kill me with this shit."

He gets up to fiddle with the blinds some more ( _paranoid much?,_ as Amanda would phrase it) before switching on a dim reading lamp next to the bed. You barely spare your surroundings a glance, because Robert is standing next to the bed _without a shirt on,_ and that's a sight you need to commit to memory. He looks even better than you had imagined. His chest is broad and strong, with just the right amount of softness in the belly (six-packs and round beer guts equally weird you out, it's just the way it is -- bellies are meant to be squishy!) His arms are naturally muscular, which you did not expect but are fully on board with. He's built like a construction worker. (You should know, you interact with enough of them in your line of work. _Talking_ to them might be a pain, but _looking_ is one of the perks of the job, as far as you're concerned.)

Leather, handsome face _and_ a hot bod? If this were one of Amanda's Japanese cartoons, you'd be getting a nose bleed.

You try to convey with your eyes just how badly you want him, since you're not allowed to use your hands. He didn't say anything about not being allowed to touch through other means, right? You scoot a little closer to the edge of the bed -- slowly, so he can tell you to stop if he wants to -- until you're close enough to nuzzle against him. You pause to look up into his eyes, silently pleading for permission.

He nods, looking almost amused by your enthusiasm. You love this easy nonverbal communication you've got going.

You take your time showing off your appreciation of his chest with nuzzles and kisses. He's got a decent amount of body hair, which is not ideal for licking purposes but does feel nice and soft against your cheek. He pulls away when you begin teasing a nipple with your tongue, and you almost pout. You were really hoping to make him produce even a fraction of the noises he's been drawing out of you since the beginning. His voice is so sexy, you bet he would sound amazing...

"Tell me what you're thinking," he orders.

You're torn between "I need your dick inside me right now" and "I want to lick you like an ice cream cone." A strangled sound comes out instead, because his big hand is suddenly cupping your balls, the tip of his fingers rubbing close to your hole (which is always a bit jarring without lube, but _oh god you need this to happen so much._ ) Then he leans down to take your cock into his mouth, and your mind explodes.

"You...," you gasp. "Expect me to be thinking... Right now?"

He laughs around your dick, causing your feet to curl and your eyes to roll back. You moan loudly, and feel teeth graze your skin as he fails to hold back a grin. "Damn," he comments before getting back down to business, still laughing with his eyes.

"What? It's been a while," you answer defensively.

You hold your voice back after that, until he gets into a rhythm and you forget to be self-conscious. There's no better feeling in this world than getting head, and you're only human, so you lose yourself in the building pleasure until he gets you so close to the edge that you nearly break position to tap him on the shoulder in warning. You still have the presence of mind to use your words, but it's a close thing. "Um! Sorry, you might want to slow down, unless you want the fun to be over before it starts..."

He slaps you again, hard enough for it to sting. "Who's in control, here? Me or you?"

"You," you answer hesitantly. "But..."

He bites into your thigh, and your objection dissolves into a moan. Okay, point made: the guy knows what he's doing, don't question it, just enjoy. You can do that. You can totally do that. You take a deep breath and focus on relaxing.

"How are your shoulders feeling?"

"I'm fine," you answer with a shrug. The position isn't especially challenging, you could keep holding it for quite a while. "You can twist me into a pretzel, honestly, I'm pretty flexible."

"Might have to take you up on that... Turn around."

You do as he says, loving the assurance in his tone, the hint of mischief that tells you he's got something good planned and all he needs is for you to play along. He's brought you to the edge _twice_ , and you haven't even done anything for him yet. You'd feel bad about being a total pillow princess if he didn't so obviously enjoy being in charge. He positions you just the way he wants you, lining you up with the edge of the mattress so he can tease you by rocking his hips against your ass. He's still wearing pants, goddammit.

You're not sure if you're allowed to just _ask_ for what you want, but he did ask for your thoughts earlier, so you decide to risk it. "...Daddy? Can I please suck your dick?"

You haven't even _seen_ it yet. Fuck, you don't even care what it looks like, you just need it in your mouth ASAP. Want him to tie you up and fuck your face, just absolutely wreck you and come down your throat. It almost shocks you how badly you want to be used. You're not always about being forced, you can be worshipful and sweet, or feisty or playful if that's what your partner wants, but tonight you just want to lose your mind, just let him take you to pieces. You don't know what it is about him that triggers this instinct in you, but the rough and dirty just goes hand in hand with the Daddy thing, he seems into it and god, it's just been so _long..._

"Hmmm.... No." You can hear the smile in his voice. "Not yet. Maybe not tonight. But thank you for asking."

He wraps an arm around your waist and gently presses against your shoulder blades until you get the hint and obediently let him bend you over. You end up with your face smooshed against the mattress and your ass up in the air -- oh, so he did want that, it wasn't a figure of speech. Your arms are still locked behind your back, which makes it somewhat trickier to keep your balance, and you're suddenly really, _really_ glad that you took the time to shower just before going out.

"Stay still, now." There's the unmistakable sound of a plastic cap popping open, followed by the cold sensation of lube-coated fingers rubbing against your hole. You groan and try not to squirm when a fingertip begins to press its way in. Experience or not, this part is always super weird.

"That's it, baby..." Robert sounds really turned on, so you must be doing something right. Knowing this makes the finger intrusion feel a lot more comfortable, somehow.

You still feel really weird about the 'baby' thing, but you remind yourself that you've already had the age play talk and it's fine, he gets it, he's not going to take this anywhere you don't want it to go. It's also hard to concentrate enough to worry about it when he finds your sweet spot and starts teasing it like a pro, making your whole body tingle.

"You gonna be a good boy and let me fuck you like this?"

You wince. That's some really uncomfortable phrasing. Ugh, fuck it, you're just gonna ask... "You know _this_ good boy is over 18, right?"

He huffs humorously."You'd better be over 25, otherwise we're gonna have problems. Actually, wait. What's half my age plus seven?"

You assumed the question was rhetorical, but then he swats you on the ass like he expected an answer. You twist a bit so you can look at him, despite the strain in your neck and shoulder. "Are you seriously asking me?," you croak.

"I'm 56. You good at mental math?"

"Not while I'm getting fingered, I'm not," you pant. "Oh, no, hey, c'mon..."

He withdraws completely and holds his hand up so you can see him wiggle his fingers. "If you want this, you're gonna have to count."

"Ungh," you complain out of principle. "You said 56, right?"

He starts playing with your rim again, so you take that as a yes.

"Divided by two... uh, 25 plus 3... 28..." It's really hard to concentrate on this when he starts finger-fucking you again, but you give it your best shot. "28 plus 7 is what, 34? 35?"

"Which is it?"

"Uhh, 35. Aah, fuck!" The tingly feeling is back, crawling up your spine and running all over your scalp, making you shiver. This feeling right there is why you love anal. If you had to choose between that and an orgasm, it would be a close call. Your entire body goes warm and numb, like you just got wrapped in a heavy blanket, and all you can focus on is chasing that tingly feeling... It's gone too soon, but it leaves you feeling all groggy and safe. You feel like you could purr.

"So, are we good?"

You hear the question, but your mushy brain needs a moment to process it. "...What?"

"Are you over 35. _Focus,_ baby," he chides you, as if such a thing were even remotely possible.

"Oh my god," you whine as he does _something_ with his fingers that cranks the intensity way up. " _Yes,_ I'm, ahh. 42. The answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything. _Fuck._ "

"You know, I'm inclined to believe that."

Your chest swells with unnameable feelings. Did he just imply you're everything he could possibly want? You're _trying_ not too fall too hard too fast over here, but how are you supposed to resist that?

"Fuck me, Daddy, please," you beg, too far gone to care about how desperate you sound.

"Am I not fucking you right now?," he teases, twisting his fingers in a way that make you arch against them automatically.

"You know what I mean -- _aghh,_ " you cry out as he scratches little burning lines down your spine with the hand that isn't pumping into you and driving you insane. "Want your dick, come on!"

"Hm, I don't know... Kinda sounds like you're enjoying these just fine."

"I'd enjoy _this_ more," you pant, blindly reaching behind you to grope at the bulge in his pants.

Before you even realize what's happened, he's pulling out of you, flipping you around and pushing you _hard_ into the mattress. 

"You want to break the rules, huh? You think just cause you're _pretty_ you get to be a brat?"

A panicked sort of whine escapes from your throat. You didn't mean to break out of position, you just sort of forgot you were holding it. God, you usually have more self-control than this! It occurs to you for the first time that you may be _proper_ drunk, and not just a little tipsy as you'd previously thought. Too drunk for power play negotiations, probably -- but you don't have time to dwell on it, because the next thing out of Robert's mouth knocks the thought clean out.

"I don't play nice with bratty subs. I _use_ them," he growls. "Is _that_ what you want? You want me to pound you until you can't think well enough to sass me anymore?"

You answer with a broken, pleading noise and nod your head frantically. _Yes. Yes yes yes please yes._

His hands slide under your legs to grip your thighs on either side and lift, folding you in half until your knees are touching your shoulders, and moving to straddle you at the same time. "Shit, you weren't kidding about being flexible," he mumbles.

You end up with your feet behind your head and a very hot man sitting on you, and you don't care about the stretch or the way your chest is compressed under his weight because he's _finally_ unzipping the fly of his pants and fishing his dick out -- oh _fuck,_ he wasn't wearing underwear this whole time.

"Open up, now."

It's all the warning you get before he pushes his dick into your mouth. You get it as wet as you can with your tongue, but you've got very little control here. You fucking love it, but it's horrible at the same time because you can't lift your head without the nerves at the back of your neck screaming in alarm. Trying to blow a guy who's sitting on your chest is always painful to you, for some reason. Something in the way it strains your neck and jaw immediately brings a prickle to your eyes. You don't know if it's a you thing, or something everyone experiences, but this is by far the most difficult angle you've ever had to suck a dick from.

"Does this hurt?"

You answer with an emphatic grunt and briefly squeeze your eyes shut. He's probably referring to the way he's got you pinned with your legs framing your head, but the stretch doesn't even _register_ next to the blinding sparks of pain at the base of your skull.

"Raise your hand if we're still green."

You lift your right hand off the bed, even though your eyes are filling up with tears and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

"Do _not_ let that hand drop back down unless you need me to stop. Understood?"

You mumble some form of acknowledgement around his dick and concentrate on keeping your hand up. You can do this for him. You're just going to relax your neck as much as possible, let him hump your mouth and try not to drool everywhere.

You allow your head to fall back against the mattress. Robert moves with you, keeping his thrusts shallow to avoid making you gag or choke (swoon, what a gentleman). You're kind of tempted to use your free hand to grab his ass and direct his movements -- you think you could take a little more than he's giving you, honestly -- but you're absolutely certain he wouldn't allow it.

"You're doing amazing," he sighs. "Don't stop, you've got this..."

His hands frame your face lovingly and you feel yourself heat up. He's so fucking good to you, even while he's fucking your face in the most uncomfortable position possible. There are tears in your eyes and you know you should just let them happen, it wouldn't hurt as bad if you just let it happen, you've got enough of a headache with those nerves going nuts every time you move... But you're a _guy_ , and you've had it drilled into you from childhood that boys don't cry. It's basically fucking programmed into your _soul_ at this point.

It might also hurt less if you weren't trying to control the pressure in your mouth, but how the fuck else are you supposed to get him off? It's a tricky thing, catch and release so you can suck him without biting, tongue him nice and wet without drooling all over your chin, alleviate your craving for his cock without lifting your head unless you _want_ the searing pain that's making light bloom in front of your eyelids...

 _Do_ you want it? You're not sure now. You want him deeper, want him to choke you, want him to push you past your limits so you can shoot off past thinking and just _let go_ , you need...

There's a high-pitched whine in the back of your throat, and it makes him hesitate even though your hand is still clearly up. You've got this, you _want_ it, he needs to give it to you before your head explodes!

He pumps into your mouth a couple more times, too fucking shallow to satisfy, driving you closer to the edge of desperation before stilling completely. You could scream.

The head of his dick teases your lips but he doesn't push back in, moving back to remain just out of your reach when you stretch your neck as far as you're able. You have to stick your tongue out to try and coax him back. You're leaking precome all over yourself and he's just sitting on you, all heavy-lidded with that smug little smirk while you drool over him like one of Pavlov's dogs. You don't even have the presence of mind to feel embarrassed, you just need him to get forceful with you before you fucking die.

"You know," he says in a carefully detached tone. "If I wanted to make it _very_ hard for you to breathe, there's not very much you could do about it right now..."

Fear runs down your spine like ice water. You allow yourself to lean into the feeling, shivering from head to toe. Your eyes briefly close and your head falls to the mattress hard enough to bounce, but you make sure your hand stays straight up, even though your arm is starting to fall asleep.

Robert hums knowingly and presses two of his fingers against your throat to feel your racing pulse. It makes you fantasize about his giant hand wrapping around your throat. You swallow and raise your semi-glazed eyes to meet his, dick bouncing helplessly against nothing. You can't seem to catch your breath.

There's a grin on his face. You weren't expecting that. It's not cruel, but it's not _kind,_ either. It's not polite or comforting kind of smile, or any smile that's made for your benefit at all -- it's the kind people can't control, the kind that sneaks up on them when something stirs them just right. You don't know if he's making fun of you or just enjoying himself a lot or if it's more of a psychopath kind of thing, but it's working for you, whatever it is. You wouldn't be sleeping with him if you thought you were in any kind of _real_ danger, but that doesn't mean you can't fantasize a little.

He starts pressing his way into your mouth again. It distinctly feels like a reward, so you must be doing something right. He doesn't push all the way in -- maybe he can't, given your position -- but you greedily suck on what he gives you, like you need to convince never to leave your mouth again. Your hips twitch up like they're searching for something to grind against. It's pointless, he's sitting too high up and your fucking _legs_ are in the way. Squeezing your thighs doesn't even bring any kind of relief. You're fidgeting desperately and Robert is _laughing_! You think he might be just as weird as you are.

"Did I say you could touch me?," he admonishes, but you can still hear a smile in his voice.

You hadn't even realized your free hand had wrapped itself around Robert's wrist. You're not sure you really want to remove it. You groan around his dick, half in protest and half because you're beginning to get lost in this floaty mind state where everything is sensation and words no longer hold. You finally give into the impulse you'd been trying to control. Your misbehaving hand grabs his still-covered ass and _pulls_ in a fruitless attempt to ram his cock down your throat.

His fist is suddenly in your hair, wrenching your head back. His smile is gone, his eyes have gone sharp and you're suddenly feeling a lot more lucid. "Careful what you wish for," he warns.

Is that a promise or a threat? You're pretty sure your pupils just grew the size of dinner plates. You let yourself go completely limp under his grip, hoping he'll get the hint and fuck you like a rag doll. One that's made for fucking, but still floppy as fuck so you can toss it around real nice. (Those probably exist, you think. If not, you might just have to market some.)

He shifts to release your legs out of the awkward position. Bringing them down hurts _way_ more than when he folded them up in the first place, and leads to some extremely embarrassing noises -- there was basically no way this wasn't gonna happen given the position, you hope he was aware of that! You only have a fraction of a second to be mortified over it before he forces his cock down your throat as far as it will go. Well, _okay_ then...

He means to pull out right away, but you use the hand that is groping his ass to fight him as he does, even though it means giving up on breathing. You're not thinking right now, your conscious mind has fucked right off and your body is operating on instinct, chasing the high.

"Yeah," he confirms to himself. _"That's_ what you want."

It blows your mind that he was able to pick up on that in the first place. Was he just doing what he wanted and hoping you'd be into it, or is he seriously reading your mind??? You are _not_ that skilled at non-verbal communication, there's no way your less conventional desires that transparent... You almost come untouched when he starts fucking your face the way you really want it, making you gag and sputter and give up on rational thought. He's pretty well-equipped in the junk department, so it's not helping the tears and snot situation, but you're way past caring. You just distantly hope that all the gagging isn't about to make you puke, because you don't want this to end prematurely.

You try to meet his eyes, but Robert isn't looking at you. He's keeping his eyes fixed on your hand, just waiting for a sign that he's taken this too far. You're not going to give him one.

 _"More,"_ you rasp when he pulls out to let you breathe. He closes his eyes when you say it, inhaling like he's getting high off of this. Fuck if that's not the sexiest thing you've ever seen. Makes you want to find other ways to get to him like this.

"Fuuuuck," he groans as he gets back into a rhythm. "You're so fucking good..."

You're pretty sure you're getting high yourself -- if not from lack of air, then from the sheer intensity of your arousal. It reaches new peaks when Robert picks up the pace and starts a litany of _oh fuck baby I'm gonna come, you're so good for me, don't stop..._

Then he abruptly pulls out with an almost pained groan, and you don't know what you've done wrong. He rolls off of you with a sigh but immediately starts petting your face and pulling you closer, so you can only stare at him in confusion.

"You okay?"

Oh shit, you let your hand drop. What the fuck! You weren't trying to safeword, you were just...! "I'm fine," you cough (holy fuck, he sure did a number on your vocal chords!) "Didn't mean to safeword, I was just, uh... Pins and needles. We can keep going, I just need to get some blood flowing through this..." You grimace and pump your hand open and closed a few times.

He looks at you in an appraising way that makes you feel oddly shy. "You can handle pins and needles," he says firmly. "Isn't that right?"

"Yes, Daddy", you answer automatically, before deciding that it's true. It's not like your arm is about to turn black and fall off or anything. You can handle a little pain, it shouldn't be any more of a distraction than the counting was.

Robert is obviously pleased with your answer, because the look he gives your turns smoldering. "Put your hand back up."

You obey without a second thought. You would agree to a lot worse if it kept him looking at you this way.

He leans in for a kiss that leaves your mind spinning. When he pulls away, the grin is back on his face. "You're fucking perfect, you know that? Give it here."

He grabs your cold, numb hand and starts massaging the feeling back into it as just watch in disbelief. _He's too good for you,_ what the fuck!?

As he slowly massages his way up your arm and chases the prickling feeling away, you feel yourself sinking, swallowed up by a thousand long-buried feelings, and for the first time tonight, you're genuinely terrified.

You're going to fall in love with this guy. You won't be able to help yourself. Fuck, you're in over your head.

You squeeze your eyes shut, and when you reopen them, Robert is staring at you curiously. 

"You sure you want to keep going? We can stop if you want, you've been good. I could just jerk you off, or we can roll over and go to sleep... Your call."

"I don't want to stop," you tell him, sounding just about as desperate as you feel. You tug at his pants. "I want _these_ to go away."

He kisses you again, like he's making love to your tongue. You're whining pathetically, and you can tell it only spurs him on. He's wriggling to get rid of his clothes at the same time, and only breaks the kiss long enough to finish the job.

You eyes roll into the back of your head when he finally settles on top of you, skin to skin. "Fuck me, Daddy," you plead, bucking your hips against him in case the message wasn't already clear enough. 

"Yeah," he agrees breathlessly. "Let me just..."

You watch impatiently, unable to stop wriggling while Robert fishes a condom out of his discarded pants pocket, slides it on and lubes himself up. You don't take it as slow as you probably should, but you're long past being able to separate pleasure from pain. Robert has no trouble meeting your enthusiasm with his own. You get the pounding you were promised, and then some.


	7. The Pickle Juice

You lie back on the bed, trying to catch your breath after some of the most mind-blowing sex of your life. "You have no idea how much I needed that," you confess. "Holy shit..." 

You turn to look at Robert, who's watching you fondly with a hint of a smile on his lips. It gives you the warm fuzzies, like your heart is suddenly expanding in your chest. Gotta love those post-coital feel-good hormones. You hope the high doesn't wear off any time soon, it's been way too long since you've had the chance to revel in it.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like melted butter. But in a sexy way." You stretch out your limbs and sigh contentedly. You look at the similarly content expression on his face, and feel a surge of pride for being the one to put it there. He's amazing, and you made him feel good. The stars in your eyes are probably _way_ too obvious, but you don't care.

You watch the play of muscles as he leans back comfortably against the pillows, linking his fingers behind his head. He looks smugly satisfied, like a lion spreading out in the sun to digest its recent kill. He looks about 10 seconds away from _purring._

"You're so fucking hot," you tell him, speech slurring with endorphins.

He chuckles quietly. "If you're into daddies, sure."

"Mm. You a hugger?"

His lip quirks. "If you want, I can be."

You snuggle up to him, nesting yourself into the crook of his arm as he wraps it around your shoulders and tugs you safe and close. You end up half on top of him, one leg sneaking in between his. You're both sweaty, but it doesn't matter. Your hand curls on his chest. You can feel his heartbeat through your fingertips, and you can't help but marvel at the feeling. You'd forgotten how good it feels to hold another human being like this.

He kisses the top of your head, and you drift off to sleep within minutes, feeling more relaxed than you have in years.

\--------------------

You wake up at the crack of dawn, shivering in a cold breeze. You can hear birds chirping, followed by a loud noise like something sliding shut. You open your eyes and let out a startled gasp, because someone is entering your -- wait, no. This isn't your bedroom.

"Shit!" You sit up abruptly. You hadn't meant to fall asleep in Robert's bed. 

There's a set of glass sliding doors behind him, leading onto a balcony. The lingering scent of cigarette smoke clues you in to what he was doing out there. You throw a quick glance at the alarm clock on his bedside table. Jesus, it's 5:40 in the morning. Who the fuck gets up this early on a weeke -- ah, shit, it's Monday. Just because you work from home and can make your own hours doesn't mean everybody else gets to. Fuck, he's probably waiting for you to get out of his house so he can get to work... Whatever it is he does. How have you not asked him what he does for a living? You're supposed to do that _before_ you jump into bed with someone. Ugh. It's gonna feel weird to ask, now.

You start hunting for your clothes, feeling way more self-conscious about your nudity than you did the night before. Wow, the man leaves all sorts of crap on his floor. You'd thought your teenager was bad.

"You alright?"

...Oh. Right. You just woke up in a panic, cursed and started scrambling for your clothes. That probably doesn't look great. You shoot him an apologetic look. "Sorry... Last night was great, I just. Hadn’t meant to fall asleep. I gotta get home to my kid."

Robert shrugs. "I’m not keeping you."

You get dressed in silence, anxiety gnawing at you just a little more sharply than usual. You run a hand through your hair, look around while patting your pockets to make sure you haven't forgotten anything, then walk up to Robert. You have to stand on your toes to kiss him. There are no tongues involved, because you fell asleep without brushing your teeth and probably have terrible morning breath, but your lips linger against his for too long to call this a peck.

He doesn't really kiss back, so you're left standing awkwardly in front of each other. "Was that not okay?,” you ask, furrowing your brow. "I’m not real familiar with one night stand etiquette.”

(Ugh, why didn't you just call it a hookup? 'One night stand' implies that you don't want to do this again. You _definitely_ want to do this again.)

"It's fine," he says, but he doesn't move towards you, either. The implicit rejection stings a little, but it's okay. You weren't expecting a love declaration or anything.

He follows you down the stairs and you linger a bit near the front door, checking all your pockets one last time -- it would be mortifying if you had to come back for your wallet or your phone, or god forbid, your keys. You'd probably elect to leave them behind and end up pawing at Amanda’s window, begging to be let in like a cat.

Ugh, you hope she hasn't noticed that you've been gone all night. She will have questions that you're not ready to answer. You were never any good at concealing the truth from her. She'll be throwing you knowing looks for a _month_. She's gonna ask who it was, and then she'll want to meet him. She's gonna expect you to start _dating_.

You look back to Robert, who's leaning casually against the wall. You wonder if he'd be open to making your next encounter a proper date. Surely there's going to be a next encounter, right? You're neighbors, so you're pretty much guaranteed to cross paths now and then, even if it's not for the express purpose of hooking up...

Shit, you hope it won't be too awkward when you _do_ cross paths again. Maybe fucking someone who lives next-door over wasn't the greatest idea. It's gonna be really weird if you're both out mowing the lawn or something at the same time, and you both keep glancing over, wondering if you should wave, or what.

Apparently, your anxiety is showing on your face, because Robert's previously polite little smile stretches into a more genuine, Robert-like smirk. "Don't overthink it," he says in that low, scratchy voice you love.

It's sound advice, especially for you. You could use someone in your life to periodically remind you not to tie yourself into knots over pointless bullshit...

You blink through the fog of longing. This was just a hookup, you knew that going in. Good chemistry in the bedroom doesn't automatically mean you'd make a great couple. You still barely know each other. Maybe next time you'll work up the nerve to ask him out for real, or maybe you'll both decide you'd rather keep things casual. Who knows? There's something beautiful about the way you can let go with a stranger, and an intensity in brief encounters that just can't be emulated long term.

There's also something pretty great about the way you're currently looking at each other with butterflies in your stomachs because you don't know if or when you'll get this chance again. One of the perks of living with an anxiety disorder is that you become excellent at discerning people's moods. You're _almost_ certain he's experiencing this feeling with you. So you look him up and down and allow yourself to smirk back, to make it really clear that you're down for a repeat any day of the week. "I'll see you around, Daddy," you call before letting yourself out.

\--------------------

You walk back to your new house on shaky legs, feeling a little bit floaty. You still can't believe what an amazing night you've had. You could probably use a few more hours of shut-eye, though. Or maybe you should just go straight for the coffee. You do need to get _some_ work done today. You may be in between projects, but emails won't answer themselves.

...Oh, the coffee maker is still in a box. You really need to finish unpacking the kitchen properly today. Ugh.

You let yourself in, groaning in annoyance when your key meets no resistance because Amanda forgot to lock up once again. You kick off your shoes and cross the living room so you can let yourself crumple onto the couch. You're starting to feel a pounding headache coming on, but that's probably due to all the whiskey you drank, not so much the lack of sleep or caffeine. You wonder if Robert is feeling hungover at all. It wouldn't be surprising if he were -- the man had a lot to drink last night.

...Shit. He had a _lot_ to drink.

Your anxious mind tries to replay the entire evening at high speed, frantically searching for missed cues, or any sign that you pushed things too far. How drunk does a guy need to be before consent becomes iffy, even if he's being proactive at the time? Robert sure _seemed_ to be in possession of all his faculties. He also seemed to enjoy himself just as much as you did -- by which you mean _immensely._ And he snuggled with you and let you spend the night -- that's gotta count for something, right? Then again, he _was_ a little cold towards you this morning... Shit, what if he's regretting it?

You're probably worrying over nothing, as usual. You wish you could just _ask_.

It sure didn't _feel_ like you were taking advantage of him, anyway. You can't help the delicious shiver that runs through you as you remember the way he just slipped into the role you gave him, like it was second nature. Ordering you around, toying with you, bringing you just on the brink of _too much_ before practically pounding you into dust... 

It's unfair to compare him to the love of your life, but you can't help it. Alex was great in bed, he really was. He gave as good as he got, and then some. But he never really got into power dynamics. You could tell he was always uncomfortable pushing you around. Robert took to dominating you like a fish to water. It's so _good_ to have someone meet your needs without having to paint them a picture first, or having to worry about whether they're enjoying themselves. You even got the feeling he was holding back at times. You bet he'd be willing to push you further, once he knows what you can take...

Mm, yeah... Next time, you're gonna...

\--------------------

The next time you wake up, it's to the unsettling feeling of being watched.

You crack your eyes open just enough to see a pair of dainty little feet, half-buried in the shaggy living room rug. "What's up, kiddo?," you croak, fighting to get your eyes open all the way. Your head immediately starts throbbing. God, you're so fucking hungover.

The owner of said feet startles first, but you're not far behind. She takes a step back. _This isn't Amanda._

"Um. Good morning..." Flirty Emma is blushing and twisting a strand of hair around her finger. Goddammit, you'd forgotten Amanda's friends were sleeping over.

You just stare at her in response, brow wrinkled in a way that you hope conveys _what do you want_ in a way that's somewhat more polite than straight up asking _what do you want_.

"Did you sleep on the couch all night?," she ask shyly. "If, uh... If you need help getting your bedroom set up, I could..."

Like hell you're ever letting that kid into your bedroom! She'd probably smell the sheets or something when your back was turned. Hasn't Amanda told her that you're gayer than figure skating??? Not that that's even the main issue, here...

Flirty Emma starts to say something else, but stops and looks behind her shoulder at the sound of footsteps in the hall. Oh, thank god! You can't handle being alone with this kid.

Amanda comes into the living room like a little tornado, Scaredy Emma in tow. "Morning, Pops!," she chimes. "What time'd you get back?"

"Late. You guys have fun?"

"Yeah! Watched some movies. Ate snacks. Stole a car. You know, usual sleepover stuff!"

You groan and clutch your head. "Amanda, indoor voice, please. I'm begging you..."

"Ooooh!" Her eyes light up. "Somebody's hungover..."

You rub at your temples and sigh. "I _maaaay_ have overdone it last night. Father of the year, I know. Think you can bring me some aspirin, or...?"

"No worries, I have just the thing!" She runs to the kitchen comes back a second later, holding a spoon in one hand and a jar of pickles in the other. Just looking at it is making your stomach churn.

"Amanda, what...?"

"Drink this."

"The pickle juice?"

"Yup! It's what I use when -- ah, _would assume_ someone would use. I would also assume that it works pretty well." She clears her throat ever-so-subtly. "Not that I would ever need to use it personally, obviously."

The Emma with the crush giggles into her hand. The other one just kind of raises her eyebrows as if to say _really?_

Your face twists into a grimace. "You kids know there's no magic food that can cure a hangover, right? The only thing you can do is stay hydrated and wait for your liver to finish processing all that gross toxin out of your blood."

Flirty Emma raises her hand shyly, like she's waiting to be called on in class. "Actually... I've read that drinking alcohol the morning after can, like, alleviate the symptoms so you don't actually feel like you're hung over at all."

"Yeaaah... I really don't think that's a real thing. Sorry, kiddo."

 _It totally is,_ " she insists, eyes going round like injecting innocence into them will make her story more believable. "I read it on, like, a proper science blog! It prevents the decomposition of the alcohol you already drank into formaldehyde, so you don't feel as sick."

"Ohmigosh, really?," the other Emma jumps in, clearly excited to have discovered a home remedy that doesn't taste like pickle juice. These are the most words she's ever pronounced in your presence, you're almost proud.

"Sounds like a good way to develop a drinking problem," you point out, while secretly freaking out over the thought of _formaldehyde_ forming in your bloodstream. You're Googling this shit the moment these girls leave.

"See? Pickle juice for the win! Effective _and_ non-addictive," Amanda triumphs. She stuffs the jar and spoon into your hands before you can protest any further.

You frown dubiously at the murky yellow liquid. "If I do this, will you drive to the store and pick up eggs and bacon? And coffee. Pre-brewed, already in a cup coffee. I don't care if it comes from a plastic dispenser, as long as it's steaming and takes my headache away.

"Ooh! Can we go back to The Coffee Spoon?"

You aim your frown her way. "No."

"But --"

 _"No."_ You don't think you've raised your voice by that much, but Scaredy Emma still goes _eep_ and takes a step back. You rub at your temples again. Your head aches way too much for this emotional navigation bullshit.

Your daughter looks like she is about to protest again, so you quickly cut her off. " _Amanda,_ I will put two whole spoonfuls of this gross nasty pickling fluid in my mouth if you do me this one favor and _go fetch breakfast_ so I can agonize in peace and absolute quiet for the next five or ten minutes."

She tilts her head as she mulls over the offer and ultimately deems it reasonable. "Should I also get orange juice and bread?"

You give her a flat look. "Duh."

"Wallet?"

You pull it out of your pocket and throw it her way without really looking. She used to play softball, she's good at catching haphazardly thrown slightly-larger-than-palm-sized objects.

"Keys?"

With a pained groan, you point to the coffee table, where your car keys are hiding in plain sight among AA batteries, approximately 5$ in change, a couple chewed up pencils and some empty snack wrappers. You need to hurry up and designate a junk drawer, otherwise crap like this will just keep accumulating on every flat surface. You know this from experience.

Amanda spins the keys around her finger. "You've heard the man, ladies! Let's go." You hold back a sigh of relief as you watch her usher her friends out of the house.

"WE'LL BE BACK IN A BIT," she yells on the way out before slamming the door.

Ugh.

\--------------------

Breakfast occurs without incident, but you still sigh in relief when the Emmas excuse themselves immediately afterwards. You end up in the kitchen, washing dishes with Amanda and struggling to keep your attention on what she has to say. Something about one of the girls getting accepted into a prestigious art school that Amanda is anxiously waiting to hear back from. It's hard to keep your eyes away from the bits of Robert's house you can see through the window, peeking out through the foliage of the unwisely positioned (but admittedly gorgeous) willow tree. Obviously there was no way you weren't going to spend the day reliving the events of last night in your mind, but you'd rather not do it while your daughter is in the room.

Amanda draws your attention to the plate she's holding up by gently tapping her fingernails against it. "What should we do with this?"

It takes you a moment to recognize it as the one Joseph brought over yesterday. It looks different when it's not covered in cookies. Man, Amanda sure cleared those fast! You didn't even get to try one.

You shrug. "We can bring it back on Saturday when we go to the barbecue."

"There's a barbecue?"

"Yup. Joseph invited us. The whole neighborhood is probably gonna be there, which means _you too_ because I'll need you for moral support. And also because you ran away like a rude little cookie-stealing elf last time. You owe me one."

She gives you an impish smile. "You looked like you were having a nice conversation. I didn't want to interrupt."

" _Amanda._ The man is married with four kids."

"Oh. That's too bad. He was your type, right?"

You almost drop the pan you're scrubbing egg off of. "What makes you say that?," you squeak.

"A daughter knows these things."

You narrow your eyes in the way that always made her spill out hasty confessions as a kid. The _considering taking away your dessert privileges_ kind of way. It always works.

"Also, you were going all..." She mimics you swooning.

"I was _so_ not!"

She hums. "Whatever you say, Pops."

She drops the topic until you're finished with your chore, but picks it up again before you have a chance to slip away. "Are you _sure_ he won't be needing that plate until Saturday? That almost a whole week away. We should bring it back right now, don't you think?"

She tries to usher you towards the front door, but you dig your heels like a cat on a leash. "I'm not going over there," you start babbling. "I am not a home wrecker. Don't try to turn me into a home wrecker!"

"I'm not telling you to seduce him, we're just going to return his dinner plate, gosh!"

"It's gonna be awkward!," you whine.

"It's not going be awkward." 

\--------------------

Awkward doesn't even begin to cover it.

Joseph's kids look like little dolls. Pretty, impeccably groomed, and empty-eyed. The four of them are standing -- not even playing, just _standing_ \-- in front of the house, like they've been positioned for a family photo. They just stare as you approach, perfectly expressionless except for the youngest, who's sleeping in the taller boy's arms.

You smile in what you hope is a friendly manner and try to adopt a casual posture and tone. "Hey guys! We're your new neighbors, we live right across the street. I mean, you know that, cause you just saw us come out of the house. Um..."

The one who's holding the toddler frowns and looks at his feet. Okay, this one's shy, maybe. Or just having a bad day. You turn away from him slightly and address to the other two, a boy and a girl who are obviously twins. "Is your dad around?"

The twins share an uncertain look before returning to their statue impression. You send Amanda a desperate _help-me-out_ signal with your eyes.

"We just wanted to return this nice plate," she says in the gentlest voice you've ever heard come out of her mouth. "And to thank you for the cookies." She takes a cautious step closer and crouches to meet their eye level, moving slowly like she's expecting them to bolt at any moment. _Wow, she's good,_ you think before she offers them the plate and both twins fail to reach for it. Not good enough, huh.

You take a page out of your daughter's book and crouch in front of the little girl. "You're Christie, right?"

She blinks. You'll take that as a yes.

"I heard you made the cookies yourself! That's pretty amazing." It's a gross exaggeration of what her father told you, but... Whatever. You're not above lying to a child if it gets them to like you faster. "Did your dad help?"

More blinking. You're starting to wonder if this is the only way these kids communicate.

"They were really good!," you add. "I mean, I _heard_ they were good... I didn't get to eat any." You throw Amanda a side glance and she elbows you in return.

A few more excruciating seconds of silence go by before Amanda seemingly gives up. "Okay, well... I'm just gonna leave this over here, okay?" She sets the plate down on the grass, pulls you both to your feet and starts dragging you away. "Oh my god, that was so awkward," she whispers as soon as you're out of earshot.

\--------------------

Amanda still has her arm around you when you freeze in the middle of the street, your eyes glued to the red pick-up truck in Robert's driveway.

"What's wrong?"

He's still home. Didn't he have to work? He... He didn't exactly _chase you out,_ but...

You eye jumps to one of the house's windows when you think you detect some movement behind it.

Amanda follows your gaze. "Did that house catch your eye?"

"Uh, yeah," you lie, flustered.

Your heart is beating way too fast. You need to get a fucking grip. It was probably nothing. Just a shadow caused by the wind messing with those flowy willow branches. There's no way Robert was standing in the window watching you like a creep. He's just a guy you hooked up with who happens to live next-door, not some psycho stalker. You're just spooked because of your interaction with those freaky kids.

"Do you want me to be scale?"

Amanda's offer breaks you out of the trance. She's such a good kid. You pat her on the head. "Thanks, but I don't need to take a photo of it. I can look at it any time I want, I barely need to pop my head out from one of our billion windows."

"That's true," she giggles. "Maybe you can ask for a tour on Saturday.

"Yeah," you answer without thinking. "...Wait, what?"

"The barbecue," she says patiently. "You said a lot of the neighbors would be there?"

Saturday. Oh god. That's five days away. It seems both too far away and too soon. What are you supposed to say when you meet him again?


	8. The Frisbee

"I don't know what to tell you, man. Support beams aren't my department. Have you talked to Sean?"

"He's on vacation."

"Still?! How many fucking days did that fucker accumulate? ...What about Maria?"

"Maternity leave, remember?"

"So you're telling me that we've been operating without a structural engineer?!"

"Well, we still have that kid who's doing the internship..."

"Jesus _Christ,_ Greg!"

"I know."

"Just because they're not million dollar projects doesn't mean we can half-ass them to the point where they come _crumbling down on top of our clients!_ You know the only reason that idiot is still around is that _we don't have to pay him!"_

"Alright, man. Calm down."

"You're telling me that we haven't had anyone competent in charge of structural integrity for a _month_ , and the plans are still somehow magically passing through review, the client is after the contractor and the contractor is after my ass--"

"No one is after your ass. The company will cover this."

"They'd fucking better! How come plan review and the inspector didn't flag this?"

"I have no idea. I gotta make some phone calls. I just wanted to let you know that this was going on, so you don't tilt your top when you see the email from the contractor. You know him, he can be, uh. Colorful."

"...Great."

"Listen, try not to let it get to you, alright? We'll take care of it." 

"Alright... Fine. Thanks for the heads up, I guess," you grumble. 

"You're welcome, man."

You end the call and throw your iPhone at your desk much harder than you meant to. The only reason it doesn't break is that Amanda made you buy one of those super thick rubber cases, after you cracked the screen on the previous model by tossing it across the room. Okay, so you may have a hard time holding onto your temper when work is stressing you out. That's another reason why you prefer to work alone. _Fuck,_ though. You think in this case the anger is justified.

You let yourself fall into your cushy office chair with lumbar support and pull up the offending email. Yup, that's pretty much one long string of insults. Apparently you don't know how to hold a pen, nobody knows what they're paying you for, and it will be your fault if the building comes crumbling on top of the client's head. He's threatening to sue. That means Legal's gonna be handling this now. They probably would be pissed if you replied.

You get up and start pacing around the small room that is your new office. You were just about to finish unpacking the last box when the upsetting phone call came. Obviously you're no longer in the mood to finish the job. In fact you're kind of tempted to kick the box, but there's some fragile stuff in there that you'll probably regret breaking once you calm down... You need to get out of the house.

\--------------------

You don't even realize where your feet are taking you until you end up in front of Jim and Kim's. The neon signed is turned off, obviously. Was your dumb subconscious hoping you would bump into Robert at a closed bar in the middle of the day? You scowl and turn around. 

By the time you reach the park, your mood has lifted somewhat. The park looks nice, though it's a little crowded for your liking -- kids in the playground, parents hovering around, people walking their dogs, joggers, you name it. You briefly wonder why none of these people have jobs, and then you chastise yourself for it. _You_ have a job, and you're here. It's a nice day. Everyone should be out enjoying it.

You manage to spot an empty bench and begin to make your way to it. Just when you're about to sit down, something smacks you right in the face. "Ow! What the f--"

A corgi with a plaid handkerchief around his neck runs over to pick up the offending projectile. He sits and wags his tail, holding the chewed up plastic frisbee in his mouth and staring up at you with those big imploring corgi eyes.

"I don't want your frisbee, buddy," you tell the dog. "Looks like it's full of slobber, no offense."

The corgi isn't fazed by your slight frown and lack of participation. He runs around in a circle and nudges your leg with his nose a couple times, then repeats the process when it fails to prompt you into action on the first try. Oh god, this thing is adorable. You're gonna have to touch the frisbee, aren't you.

Some big red-bearded guy in a Hawaiian shirt jogs over to you. "Ya know, frisbees are traditionally caught with your hands, not with your head," he says by way of apology.

 _Yeah well, traditionally you're not supposed to aim them at people's heads_ is what you first want to reply, but that would make you sound like a sulky little bitch. You should go with something more aloof, like _Oh really? I could've sworn it was a soccer ball_ , or the more flippant _I'll be sure to catch it with my teeth next time_. Those would definitely score you more social points. Do you _want_ to be liked by this guy, though? Just cause he has a cute dog doesn't mean he's not an asshole.

"Ha! I'm just messin' with ya," he adds before you can make up your mind. "I'm Brian, by the way."

"...Hi."

"I see old Maxwell has taken a likin' to ya."

You awkwardly pat the dog's head. This seems to renew his hopes that you will take the frisbee from him, so you cave and throw it for him. He takes off running excitedly.

You discreetly wipe the slobber on your pants before risking a look back in Brian's direction. (Accidental eye contact, eek!) You have no idea what to say to the guy, so you're relieved when Maxwell zooms back in with the frisbee in his mouth and offers it to you again. This time you hand it to Brian instead of throwing it. The guy nods approvingly. Great, they _both_ like you now, you're never gonna be able to leave.

"So, uh...," you stammer.

He throws the frisbee again, then points to a chubby kid who's sitting on a blanket and reading a book almost bigger than her head. "That's my daughter Daisy over there. Her teacher tells me she has the reading comprehension skills of a high schooler."

Oh god, you hate that type of parent. Are you going to have to fight over who's got the more talented daughter, now? Fuck that. You're heading home. "Okay, well, I'm gonna --"

"She's only 10," he says at the same time. _Goddammit._

"...My daughter is about to turn 18," you offer awkwardly.

He makes The Face. You brace yourself for what comes next. You've had this conversation before.

"How old _are_ you?," he asks, pretending to be shocked.

"Forty-two," you answer as deadpan as possible. He's gonna say you don't look it, and then he's gonna make you guess his age, and you'll probably offend him no matter what you answer. This is why you hate talking to strangers.

"Ha, I'm five years younger!"

 _Excuse me?_ What the fuck is this guy's problem?

"So I take it you two are new to the neighborhood?"

It's not like you're embarrassed to be a single parent, but it still pisses you off when he just _assumes_ the single part. "What makes you say that?," you ask in a clipped tone.

He chuckles and slaps you on the shoulder. Holy shit, the guy has some arm power. "Heard about you from Joseph. You're the guy who moved into the tiny house, right?"

_That tiny house is an authentic late 19th-century Prairie School work of art and it is fucking cool, thank you very much!_

Maxwell chooses this moment to return, and this time you kneel on the ground next to him so you can focus on petting him instead of envisioning yourself throttling his owner. The dog signals his approval by rolling over on his back. You spoil him with belly scratches and continue to ignore Brian's stream of cheerfully-packaged insults until your phone mercifully begins playing the Pokémon theme song that is Amanda's ringtone. You fish it out of your pocket with one hand and bat some dirt off your knees with the other.

"Hey Panda, what's up?"

"Hey, Dad. Are you doing anything important right now?"

You hum pensively. "Well, I _was_ petting a dog. I suppose some people might consider that important."

"Oh, well obviously that takes precedence, forget I called! ...No but seriously, don't hang up."

She sounds nervous, which is making you nervous. "Did you need something, honey?"

"Uh, yeah. I'm kind of stranded at the mall. Do you think you could come pick me up?"

You frown. "What happened to your car?"

"Left it at home. A friend picked me up."

"Which friend?," you can't help but ask.

"Does it matter? She ditched me, I'm mad at her. Are you gonna come pick me up or do I need to walk?"

You hesitate. "I mean, I would, but I'm at the park right now."

"So come pick me up from the park?"

"I walked here."

"Oh." She sighs. "Okay, thanks anyway. I guess I'll start walking."

"No, wait!" You throw a quick glance in Brian's direction. He's not even trying to pretend he's not listening, what an asshole. "Stay where you are, I'll come meet you. We can grab something to eat at the food court and then shop around for some back-to-school stuff. We'll make an afternoon of it." 

"Ooh! Are you gonna buy me clothes?"

"I will buy you _one_ clothe."

She laughs. Yay, daughter cheer-up achievement! That goes a long way towards your own mood elevation.

"Wait, how are we going to get home afterwards, though? It's a 40 minute walk, just so you know."

"We'll hitchhike like vagrants?," you suggest.

She laughs again. "I'm game."

\-------------------------------

You have a nice time eating burgers and clothes-shopping with Amanda. You end up buying her a full outfit, to nobody's surprise. You also pick out some new underwear for yourself, since you've resolved to throw out the embarrassingly tattered pairs. You watch a grown man in victorian clothing throw a fit in Dead, Goth, & Beyond, and argue with Amanda over whether this is the same store that she threw up in once (it's not). A pretty entertaining afternoon, all in all. 

It's later than you expected when you check the time on your phone. "We should probably head home," you announce. "I'm gonna need four hours minimum to figure out how to build my new bed, and I'd like to avoid sleeping on the couch two nights in a row."

You don't hitchhike home, obviously -- you don't want to get mugged, shot or stabbed. No, you just have your daughter call a cab like a normal person. (A normal person with high enough anxiety that they need their _child_ to make phone calls for them -- so naturally you still worry about getting mugged, shot or stabbed until the taxi safely drops you off at home.)

\-------------------------------

It takes you forever to fall asleep that night. When you finally do, you dream about lawsuits, ghosts, and Amanda's face going blank and dead-eyed like Joseph's creepy kids. 


End file.
